Poetry Audio R.I.P. DUKES OF HAZZARD

Written a few years ago—and posting this here after hearing a Bobcat Goldthwait/Dana Gould routine at Largo last night.

New Poem: GUILTY PART THREE

made you hold your pain inside

made you believe I wasn’t reliable

caused you to doubt my emotional maturity

caused you to consider better alternatives

> 

had you return borrowed furniture

insisted you do this out of spite

knew you’d be coming Saturday morning

wanted you to discover I wouldn’t be there

> 

your three hour trip north

was a three hour trip south

I should have taken instead

of being a thoughtless boyfriend

one last time

SLATE’s Matthew Dessem enters Hope Hicks’s mind.

Excerpt from Dessem’s satirical column written from the POV of Hope Hicks being approached by a reporter from THE NEW YORK TIMES:

“But Ms. Hicks,” she said, putting her hand on my shoulder. “We are on your side. We just have no way of explicitly expressing our sympathies, because we’re still dining out on an antiquated conception of press neutrality, so the public has infer the conscious and unconscious biases informing our coverage based on how far we bend over backwards to treat your decision whether or not to ignore a congressional subpoena like you’re Hamlet in the fucking chapel or something. We shall also arrange a glossy photoshoot.”

Poetry Video LIFE DURING TRUMPTIME 2019

https://youtu.be/6FLVl5A_n3o

New Poem: ANOTHER STATE OF OUR NATION

we luxuriate in insulation from reality

confident of being too rich and/or too white

to suffer from separation of families,

raids by police or ICE,

imprisonment in various kinds of holding areas

once known as concentration camps

>

we don’t talk much about impeachment 

in our crisp four-dimensional suburb

except to regard it as mere gnat buzz

because it’s more important 

to complain on social media

that Robert Pattinson as Batman

or the final season of GAME OF THRONES 

should be overruled, nullified, invalidated

while the dangerous President 

is allowed to finish his term

>

reality doesn’t suit our lifestyle 

Revised Older Poem: FOR POET ANONYMOUS

“It’s better to be king for a night

than schmuck for a lifetime.”—

line written by Paul D. Zimmerman

for Martin Scorsese’s  THE KING OF COMEDY

Once you had time for nobodies like me.

Hell, I even liked/respected you enough to 

give you a lift in downtown Austin 

when we were both participants in

a poetry festival eighteen years ago.

But you wanted to be appreciated by the right people.

And I went through a phase in my life

where I was too easily angered by

the right people openly despising the wrong people 

instead of realizing what I couldn't change

and what others didn't want to change--

and going about my business.

So I became enraged at you in a public place

when you were surrounded by the people

you never wanted to be separated from.

And I--

in just over a minute--

built a wall between us

far too high to ever be breached.

Eventually, I stopped trying to

either beg for a clean slate

or continue being frustrated

over your relentless resolve

to keep miscreants like me

out of future poetry conversations.

I acknowledge I hurt you
with my belligerence and wrath.

And all I can do now 

is to write this poem

from permanent exile

and keep going about my business.

Mel Gibson’s current career, explained.

Marina Hyde via THE GUARDIAN:  

Mel Gibson not only has a slate of talked-about projects on the go – despite his numerous racist, sexist, homophobic, violence-threatening, violence-admitting, Holocaust-questioning meltdowns over the years – but that this particular one sees him play the paterfamilias of the “Rothchild” family, an astronomically rich New York clan.  

Over to Mel’s spokesman [Alan Nierob]who delivers one of the more shameless statements I have seen, even in his line of work: “‘Rothchild’ is not about the actual Rothschild family,” this ran, “and the only similarities between the two are that they are wealthy and their names are similar.”

Right. Totally. Imagine the misfortune of the movie-makers landing on the epicentre of this particular antisemitic trope, changing one letter in a way that, arguably, makes the point even more sledgehammer, and then casting Mel Actual Gibson in it. What are the chances? You simply can’t legislate for unforeseeable sensitivities.

“Whatever has happened in the past it doesn’t seem to affect his international value at all,” mused the producer of one of the star’s new projects this week, before delivering perhaps the most deathlessly understated verdict on Mel Gibson. “He might be a little polarising on some things.”

Poetry Audio: ANOTHER SCREENWRITER’S LAMENT

Revised Older Poem: THIS IS THE NEWS

Revised Older Poem: 1% POEM

you dug a trench in the sand

filled it with swamp water,

threw in lobsters, crabs,

snakes of all sizes

and electric eels

 >

all of this prohibitive excess

to make damn sure

no unwashed

unwanted people

could share with you

> 

on your property

people eat large slices

of an endangered world

(no sustainability allowed)

while the rest of us

wonder why

you felt justified in

disfiguring a public beach

by digging a trench in the sand

Revised Recent Poem: After Being Told Not To Work

there are things to miss
about the old job:
the friends glad to see you
most of them empathizing
agreeing with every lunchtime vent
about changes in policy
and how things used to be more efficient
>
bid a definite farewell
to superficial colleagues
courteous to you only until promotion
then they don’t have to care
or even speak to you anymore
>
clean out the desk
fill the box
inter it at public storage
>
learn to cope with no deadlines
plus entire days where you feel like
you’re getting used to
at least one phantom limb

Sharing some bad reviews.

"It's truly hard to tell, in a McCarthy performance, where the
incohate rant stops and the poetry begins. And it's hard to
find the music, the poetic craft, on the page of one of his
chapbooks, either."--Richard Beban
“Aside from the occasional stabs at assonance and consonance
picked up and dropped so quickly they make me think they
were the kind of random typing accidents that happen
when monkeys try Shakespeare, show me the poetry in this piece"—
Richard Beban on one of my poems.

No further comment on the above.

New Poem: WHAT THE EGO WEIGHS

according to the egotist,
it's as light as a feather
from the point of view
of the egotist's victim,
it's a giant, intended as
soul crushing boulder
the egotist heaves
in hopes the victim,
as he tries to write his way
back to daylight,
will abandon all aspiration
and die alongside the skeletons
of practitioners of verse
the egotist feared would become
eventual competition
if given encouragement
and true consideration

New Poem: ROLL AWAY THE STONE

Sisyphus was often admonished
for not knowing
and not learning what good was
and the literary stone
rolled over him numerous times
because he didn't follow the approved method
of pushing it up the hill
and locking it firmly
in its ornate display case

Eventually. the stone rolled on top of Sisyphus
and an eminent person in the crowd cried out
YOUR DEATH CAN'T COME SOON ENOUGH
causing the crowd to grow silent and back away
from Sisyphus the impulsive apostate
who couldn't roll the literary stone just right

Sisyphus eventually accepted
the verdict of the crowd
cued by eminent person's disgust:
he was unclean,
donned the garments of a leper,
and greatly reduced his public profile

When eminent person climbed
to Mount Olympus and never returned,
Sisyphus heard the crowd's lamentations,
acknowledged eminent person's kindness to others,
and looked into a mirror free of distortion

He no longer saw uncleanliness
or disfiguring scars
caused by the stone's weight

Too many years had passed
a form of clarity arrived
Sisyphus realized he didn't have to push
the same stone up the same hill
as everyone else

Now, he was free

Ready to experience actual sunlight
instead of artificial darkness

Revised Older Poem: HOORAY FOR HOLLYWOOD 2004

Hilary Duff sings “let the rain fall down”
over the public-address system
as I walk through the courtyard
of the Hollywood and Highland shopping center.

It’s a beautiful day.

I cross Hollywood Boulevard and there's
Gandalf the Wizard (or someone dressed like him)
talking to members of a crowd
staring at the front of Grauman’s Chinese.

They're waiting for the stars
(Rebecca Romijn-Stamos and Greg Kinnear)
to arrive at the Chinese for the premiere of GODSEND.

Everyone in Hollywood seems genuinely friendly.

The aspiring rapper passing out copies of his CD single;
the waitress who calls me “honey” at the California Pizza Kitchen;
the young man who gives out free passes to Jimmy Kimmel Live;
the silver-suited elderly evangelist who smiles
when he says that I run the risk of going to Hell without Jesus.

My days are spent wandering through Hollywood-
seeing the “modern” shopping areas surrounded
by grunge and occasional disrepair.

Nights are consumed with watching DVDs
on a portable player in my room
at the Hollywood Roosevelt Hotel.

So far, I’ve seen 20 movies-
everything from the grandeur of GIANT
to the schlock of WIN A DATE WITH TAD HAMILTON.

One night, I meet the ghost of Montgomery Clift,
who stayed at the Roosevelt
when filming FROM HERE TO ETERNITY.

Fortunately, the ghost is the young and beautiful Monty
from the era of RED RIVER and THE HEIRESS,
rather than the Monty ravaged by drink, drugs.
and a near-fatal auto accident.

Monty’s ghost stands a foot away from me.

He smiles at me, says “Don’t be afraid” and disappears.

I return to my room,
wondering if I heard a warning or a benediction.

Revised Older Poem: WHAT IS HELL?

WHAT IS HELL?

  

is Hell a place

like a shopping mall food court

where almost everything is closed

and you’re the only one

informally dining there

the elevators don’t work

the escalator is broken

and you can’t leave the mall

no matter how much you want to

or is it a bookstore

where you’re watching

an egocentric literary sensation

standing on a chair

and saying in body language

with volume turned up to 12:

YOU’RE NOT ME

AND YOU NEVER WILL BE

and you can’t leave the store

no matter how much you want to

or is Hell

that part of one’s mind replaying

this cognitive distortion mantra:

if it happened Before,

it will happen Once More,

and you can’t stop dwelling

on sins of the long-distant past

or imagine a less calamitous future

and you can’t leave your house

no matter how much you want to