Sullen Thrills

2006-07-05T19:37:00.002-05:00

Poem #16--Follow the Burning Rainbow

2006-07-05T19:37:00.001-05:00

Follow the burning rainbow to a pot of plastic pennies
you seek the milk of human kindness
but there is not any;
fair Helen, chained, is made to plow
proud Pegasus, a gelding now
Apollo's chariot is black
Orion has a broken back.

Yet youthful folly will insist
it still sees legends in the mist
where fairy tales are very real
and happy endings still exist.

Follow the severed skyline to a place where eagles die
the very brook and wood corrupt,
the sun, a cataracted eye;
the winds of change have lost their stride
the moon no longer rules the tide
the oceans fester like a sore
infected to the planet's core.

And hope is but an inmate
in a prison none can ever breach
and loyalties are sandy spires
of castles built upon a beach.

Follow the heavy hail of stones to a kingdom made of glass
the human river floods its banks
and hatred grows like grass;
the bureaucratic beasts are bred
their fiber optic veins run red
all they know is rich or poor
and all they ever want is more.

And comfort is a coffin lid
the shuts the noise out when you've died
when paradise has been revoked
the graveyard's where you'll go to hide.

Follow the spyglass vector to the depths of outer space
in search of something new to kill
to thrill the human race
which, by its own hand, bears a curse
the touch of Midas in reverse;
we glorify ourselves as lords
then slip and fall upon our swords.

And the rainbow is a conflagration
trailing smoke and crashing down
and no one even watched it fall
or mourned it when it hit the ground.

Kenneth "Frito" Lay is Dead (and other boo-hoos)

2006-07-05T19:37:00.000-05:00

Well, Kenneth Lay is now dead. Boo-fucking-hoo. Bye, Kenny. Thanks for sinking the big, pink torpedo into so many people's hopes and dreams before you struck out on the Worm Road. Bollocks to ya, pal.

K.L. joins the vaunted Fortner's Boo-hoo-hooing List, a list for those I don't and won't miss. Also on the list: Benito "Finito" Mussolini; Joe-Joe "Don't call me Jenny" McCarthy; the Columbine nerds that wore the corny-ass trenchcoats (their biggest mistake? They should have started with themselves first); all of the Orcs from Lord of the Rings; Kyle Sandlin and Joe Gibson, former next-door-neighbors of mine at Marshall U. (they're probably not dead yet, but I just can't wait to put them on the list--they're THAT nice); Adolph, naturally; and Michael Moore (again, he's not dead yet, but when he is, you can be assured that Big Business is to blame!!!).

On the You're-Cool-So-You-Can-Live List: My cat, Pippen; my imaginary friend, Doren Pillock III; all of the Bailey family (all 9,000 members); and the red-haired girl at the Sophia Food Lion grocery store (nice pants, babe).

That is all.

Son of a bitch, that puts a lot of pressure on a guy.

2006-06-26T20:24:00.001-05:00

Hello there, nobody-in-particular. As I was just now perusing the blog of Sir Gooseyard the Verisimilitudinous (which word did I just make up? Hmm???) at www.gooseyard.blogspot.com I saw something very upsetting--my blog site on his list of recommended reading. Well, this is a terrible thing (although, Thanks for the flattery, pal), as I have posted almost NOTHING on it. Furthermore, when I do post something, it is usually during one of my depressive nadirs and therefore is a load of ghastly tripe.

Therefore, I must post this musing that I had whilst wondering around my processing plant the other day. Okay, here it is: You know how Obi-Wan Kenobi is talking to Luke Skywalker on Tattoine in the original Star Wars, explaining who Darth Vader is and all that junk? He says something to this effect at one point: "Vader betrayed and murdered your father." What I was thinking was, man, how ONE word could make a major difference in that movie. What if Kenobi had said: "Vader raped and murdered your father". Huh? Man, that would be freaky, wouldn't it?

Anyhow, that was what I was thinking at work. That would explain a lot about my social world, wouldn't it?

PS I do not condone the raping of Jedi knights, unless it is for charity.

Frisbee League Team Names, first update

2006-06-26T20:24:00.000-05:00

Here are some of the newly-created teams for the Frisbee Baseball League--

1) The Boston Stranglers
2) The Los Angeles Commuters
3) The Cleveland Plains-Dealers
4) The Mississippi Burning
5) The Virginia Wolfes
6) The New York Minutes
7) The Oklahoma Laters (get it?)

The commissioner of the FBL is Philo Penobscott, former undersecretary to D.H. Lawrence Olivier Newton-John Wayne Gacey.

Frogs in winter

2006-02-19T05:20:00.000-05:00

I try to convince myself that making a blog entry is a good thing. But I keep coming back to the fact that, no matter what you link to or how interesting your comments are, it's no different than getting a vanity plate for your vehicle. So many clever people in the world; so, so many. So many people, period. Everywhere you look, bumping against each other in the grocery aisles and fighting for the last Dinkly Dan doll every Christmas at Target. Some are nice, some are morbidly self-absorbed, some are evil, and some would constantly argue just what the definition of those words really are. People always have a viewpoint and always have to argue about something. There's always got to be some fucking argument about something. People write books, people fuck, people cut ribbons at ceremonies, people help old people out in the winter, people do etcetera.

Now, I'm not taking the old "what's the point of a blog" route. I don't need to ask anyone that question. I don't care for anyone else's answer. I, because I'm an asshole, would probably spit carefully-worded acrimony at anyone who bothered to tell me what to think of any given situation. I do a lot of thinking. LOTS. I have had all kinds of ideas; ideas of things I need to do creatively or otherwise. But you know what? I have thought about them so much, trying to figure out what will be the upshot of doing those things, following a chain of possibilites that branch out from the center of my actions, that I can't see anything useful out on the periphery of human interaction or personal development that the branches could possibly lead to. You can think too much. I'm not that intelligent in a lot of ways, and I've got no motivation. But still I've thought about things too much. Making a blog entry is not a good idea. Nor is the vanity plate. It stinks of delusion and/or desperation. In my case I am probably both of these things, but make no mistake, no one can afford to take a position of smug superiority relative to me over this fact. Because, and I would assure them if they listened to me, I believe that they are no better off than me.

I know only one useful thing, really, and it's the only thing I care enough about to debate--there's no more hopeful a sound than frogs in winter. You want to know when winter will end? Fuck your doppler radar and your know-it-all technological monster of a world. Listen for the frogs. They are heralds of hope. Spring will follow, and a song will follow with it.

The Shameful Drambuie Affair

2005-08-08T21:31:00.000-05:00

4-12-1891

To the Esteemed, Much-Adored, and Just Generally Well-Liked Perriwig Pigg:

Much time has passed, my old China plate, since I've penetrated the well with my large, quivering plume and eructed the living ink onto paper to send you good tidings. Ahem. Well, anyway, we all know that I'm just ace in everybody's book, and I admit that freely. However, I have had my share of embarrassing moments, and I thought that, for the sake of my own hubris, I'd write a series of letters which would delve further into some of my missteps. After all, one cannot hope to grasp the big dipper if he hasn't the courage to straddle Pegasus. Er. Anyhow, here is the account of a shameful affair regarding Drambuie, Jimi Hendrix, and a generator.

In 1998, while working at Family Toy Warehouse, a pal of mine invited me to watch his band perform a set of rock songs at the old Chase Lounge, which was a ratty little swill hole just past the Char, NOT a piece of furniture. The guy, or kid in all actuality, worked at FTW as well. His name was David Deming but I always called him Davy Jones. At that time I was living in a one-room, low-income apartment at Wilbrien Apartments. It had a security gate, so I guess I could brag about how I lived in an exclusive Gated Community; the only problem with that is that the gate was more to keep us on the inside than to keep everybody else out. Anyway, I made about $5.50 hourly and worked about 30 hours a week, so I was basically eating powdered donuts for dinner every night. All I had was my Super Nintendo, my CDs, my love of beer, and my dreams of one day being a hoity-toit. I also happened to have a copy of "The Everything Bartender's Book" and I had fallen in lust with the idea of making every drink in the book. Never mind that I barely knew a liquor from a liqueur.

So, the day of the big gig arrives,followed shortly by a bad thunder storm. The band is late, which is sad, but even sadder is the fact that the 12 hayseeds in the bar couldn't give a damn less whether the band showed up or not. In fact, it seemed obvious to me that no one knew that a band was even supposed to play. I join yet another coworker at the bar, a Barney Fife lookalike named Otis, and proceed to make a complete pretentious jackass out of myself. A dishwater blonde with a physique like Karen Carpenter is tending the bar. Have you ever seen someone who is working their jaws like they're chewing gum without actually having any gum in? Well, she was. I don't know why. She asked Otis, his pal, and me what we wanted.
Otis: "An icehouse, please."
His pal: "Yeah, I'll have one too."
Me: "I'd like a champagne cocktail, please."

She didn't give me a dirty look. She just looked at me and said, "What did you say?" I repeated my request. "We don't have those", she informed me. She gave the other two guys their Icehouses and turned to me.
"How about a Rusty Nail?", I asked.
Now, you have to understand something about the Chase Lounge. It was about as big as a pump house and about as sophisticated as one. If you've seen the Boar's Nest, the bar/restaurant from "The Dukes of Hazzard", then you have an excellent idea of what the Chase Lounge looked like inside.
"What?", she said, just a little irritated.
I decided to help her out. "It's 1.5 ounces scotch to a half-ounce of drambuie, with the drambuie poured in last." What makes this bit so shameful is that, not only was I being a pretentious codpiece, but that I pronounced the word "drambuie" with a Glasgow brogue like the Scottish singer Fish did when he used the word during a Marillion song. I had actually learned of the liquer's existence from the song.
"What is it??", she repeated.
"Drrrombyewwwww", I said yet again, Scottish brogue and all, but now I was fairly humiliated.
Outside, it had started to absolutely come down in buckets.
"Look, man, the bartender couldn't get a babysitter, I'm just fillin' in 'til he can get back."
From here the conversation descended into The Cheese Shop skit from Monty Python and, again, I'm not making this shit up.
"I'll have a Moosehead. Beer."
"Don't have that."
"Okay. Do you have a Samuel Adams or Guinness?"
"No."
I gave up at that point. I knew it was hopeless. "I'll have a Corona then."
"Uh..." She looks toward the shitty little cooler. "Sorry, we don't carry that."
"Um, what do you have?"
"Budweiser, Bud Light, Icehouse, Natural Light, Natural Ice."
I think I got a Natural Ice so I could get drunk more quickly. That proved to be a mistake. This was also about the first time that the power died in the bar and the generator kicked on. Eventually full power was restored, but the storm was still raging outside.

The band showed up about a half hour after they were supposed to. By then I was on probably my third Natural Ice, and they're fairly potent, and the rednecks (a group to whom I belonged since the U.S.S. Drrrombyeww couldn't save me)had the jukebox pumping out...well, I don't remember, but it was either Lynyrd Skynyrd or Garth Brooks. I DO remember that some fucker had put in about 100 quarters. Well, the band starts setting up and I feel, even through the building buzz, that we're going up Shite Creek without a paddle. They are three college kids with the mandatory clone cool dude college haircuts and sports-related shirts in a room full of checkered jackets and Red Man chewing tobacco hats.

Before they can start playing they are introduced by some dude (maybe the proprietor, but where the hell was he when I was being debased at the bar?) and there is an uncomfortable moment when it looks like the rednecks are going to keep the jukebox playing while the band plays. It gets shut off (and I promise you that there was some very audible muttering about this) and the group, whose name escapes me, fires into its first song, Jimi Hendrix's "Voodoo Chile". I'm trying to figure out if the bass player is the singer or the guitar player. Guess what? NOBODY is singing. They don't HAVE a fucking singer. To me, playing these songs without a singer is like displaying popular works of art with all of the straight lines left out. The rednecks have no choice but to gather around, because it's too loud to hear yourself think. In the middle of the second song, which I believe was "Rock and Roll" by Led Zeppelin, the power goes out again. Boom-bap, boom-bap, all you can hear is Davy Jones drumming, keeping time like the song's still going. Apparently everybody kept playing, and when the generator kicks in, they are all still together, about 12 seconds further into the song like they'd never lost power.
Not bad, I must say.
Meanwhile, I've been drinking many, many Natural Ices (I was fairly hearty in those days) and feeling damned good. The power has gone off a couple of times by the latter part of the set, but the rednecks have become fairly receptive to the Dorm Monkees or whatever they were called. By the way, they really were a very tight band. The guitar player was exceptional. They launch into "Red House" by Hendrix (having already played "Voodoo Chile" and "White Room" by Cream twice due to a lack of tunes) and I, who have been sitting at the very back of the room propped up against the wall, feel like adding the vocals to the track, since I knew the lyrics. So when the first verse pops up, everyone gets to hear the drunken, pretentious, would-be Scotsman-cum-bluesman in the back shouting, "There's a red house over yonder/that's where my baby stays..." I sang a few lines and then the guitar player shot me a look so hateful that, even in my wasted state, I shut up immediately. But, for the record, I will say this: he was a prick to think that everyone in the crowd was going to be perfectly all right with the idea of playing famous rock songs with NO FUCKING VOCALS! It still pisses me off. It makes no more sense than having Marcel Marceau miming Pavarotti. None whatsoever.

To make a long story over, I'll say this: This is a tale of my own embarrassment. In the end, the band won the crowd over fairly well (albeit a crowd you could have put around a medium-sized campfire). Davy Jones had his gorgeously hot girlfriend with him that night while I had Otis, so I can't make fun of him. In the end, I came off looking like a complete twerp who needed a pitch cap applied to his head. The end.

So, dear Perriwig, I hope you have learned something from this cautionary tale, for I assure you that I did not. As I dabble my long, slightly curved quill into this warm, black ink, I can only think of you, perched upon your window seat, stroking your long, black beard with an amused, distracted hand as you read this. Now, to make this missive complete, I shall set my hot, waxen seal upon the parchments folds and pop it up your way. The letter, that is. Oh, and tell Oscar Wilde to put the tack back in my fucking stable.

Yours dearly,

...in conversation, I mean,

Rexford Badpenny, Cad about Town

Poem #15--My Friend and My Wife

2005-03-05T22:44:00.003-05:00

MY FRIEND AND MY WIFE

My dying bride of thirty years
remember when we met?
I knew we wouldn't last forever
but it hasn't been forever yet.
Sweet bolt of Love with a hue of gold
and the box, all in red, where it's kept;
sweet bird of youth, when it's journey is done,
with its memories feathers its nest.
I sit beside you, my hand in your hand
and you on the threshold of the end of your life
I bring you comfort, your husband and friend
and you bring me meaning, my friend and my wife.
My undying love, I'll fashion for you
into a chain like the days of our lives;
link upon link of bottomless passion
and when we're both gone
that Love still survives.

Poem #14--SadlyMadly

2005-03-05T22:44:00.002-05:00

SADLYMADLY

Who sad? You sad. Me sad, so sad.
Sadly sitting do I still, grimly seeking sullen thrills.
Oh so sad from day to day, oh so desperate--sadly pray.
Grinning like a killer mad, prompted by the swords of sad.
Staring at the mirror's face, staring into outer space.
Outer space is staring back; mirror's face is sadly cracked.
I sad. Why sad? No glad, just sad.
Sad, said I--sad, but why? Sad and mad but never glad.
Sadness like a suit I wear. Many see but no one care.
Laughing louder, night and day. Not in glad, but maddened way.
I sad. When sad? All the time sad.
Friendless grinning, happy daze. Glassy eyes with icy glaze.
Waking sadly in the morn. Would be glad if never born.
Writhing like a carcass mad, kept alive by swords of sad.
Sadlymadly, living badly; take my mind, I give it gladly.
I sad, too bad! Sad times I've had.
Sadlybadly, living madly; give me hope, I'd take it gladly.
Sickly like a fallen leaf; mad I am, so struck with grief.

Pride is hard to swallow or chew; regrets are abundant, confessions are few.

Poem #13 Food Fight Fundays

2005-03-05T22:44:00.001-05:00

FOOD FIGHT FUNDAYS

Come on down to Food Fight Fundays
open all week, after church on Sundays
eat yourself a cake, drink a chocolate shake
let yourself get caught up in the Food Fight Fun craze
You say your girlfriend is a prude?
We'll put Rohypnol in her food
and she'll be sure to please or your next meal's free!

Come on in to Food Fight Fundays
If you've had enough Hot Dog on Bundays
Bring your wife, bring the mistress, too
let 'em have a go in the Food Fight Fun Maze
A fully-stocked bar, ball pits, too
the teens all like the Heavy Petting Zoo
It's always really great and we're open late!

Come on in to Food Fight Fundays
the best damned time since Atilla the Hundays
the waitresses are flirts and they wear tight skirts
and they'll do a little more during Lap Fun Mondays
Tuesday nights, the kids can watch a show
some animatronic rigmarole
and if you're bored to death try our crystal meth!

Come on up to Food Fight Fundays
if you're sick and tired of Shakespearean Pundays
you college kids are broke and your credit's a joke
but you can pay your tabs off in a whole lot of fun ways
the guys can cook and straighten chairs
the girls can work off their debts upstairs
and everyone is clean though we have vaccines!

Come on now to Food Fight Fundays
for Friday night's Twilight Pie Fight Fun Phase
when the siren starts find the nearest cart
and smash a pie or brick into the nearest dumb face
be a good sport and don't be sore
you signed a waiver at the door
so if you get concussed don't you raise a fuss.

Food Fight, Food Fight, Food Fight Fundays
seven days a week, all of them are Fundays
Come on now, let us show you how, at
Food......Fight...............FUNDAYS

Poem #12--Suicide Stew

2005-03-05T22:44:00.000-05:00

SUICIDE STEW

If the darkness is swelling inside of your heart
and your rainbow is eight shades of blue
if you think it's too late now to make a fresh start
I'd advise you to sample some Suicide Stew.

You don't need a mixer, a pot, or a pan
you don't need an oven or fridge
you just need a tree and some double-braid rope
or the courage to jump off a bridge.

If your wife or your husband moved out without warning
and you're suddenly craving the end
if they left you to cry and they won't tell you why
I'll tell you what I'd recommend...

You don't need a compass, a map, or a light
you don't need a raft or canoe
just swallow your weight in antidepressants
and then you have Suicide Stew.

If nobody calls you to say "happy birthday"
if nobody calls you at all
just pick up a gun and move at a run
to the dimly-lit end of the hall.

You don't need a safety, a strap, or a scope
you don't need to be a good shot
just suck on the barrel and pull on the trigger
the Suicide Stew's getting hot!

Who needs a world full of self-serving phonies?
They just want to sell you some junk
they'd kill their own dads for a good parking spot
so go to the pub and get drunk.

Slam a tequila, throw down some whiskey
shotgun a pitcher or two
close down the bar, then head to your car
you're ready for Suicide Stew.

Drive on the sidewalks, park in a fountain
stagger around on the quad
blame all your heartaches on Mary Jane Cornsilk
blame all your troubles on God.

Meanwhile, the rest of us fight on in spite of
the specter of certain defeat
Suicide Stew is an immoral food
that most normal people won't eat.

So maybe it's too late, and maybe it's not,
the question is: What will you do?
Swallow your pride and show them you tried
...or swallow some Suicide Stew.

Poem #11--Strangebot-309

2005-02-27T15:28:00.000-05:00

Strangebot-309

I.

Strangebot slew the lumberjack--at least that's what they say--
far up north in Plateau Town on an evening cold and gray.
Ill winds bear the half-mast flags over all the world this day;
Lightning justice soon must strike to take the tears away.
- Strangebot, Strangebot-309, they'll take your life away.

Lawman Brown from Plateau Town set out to seal his fate.
Strangebot, watching from on high, could feel the lawman's hate.
The lawman and his Noble Ten would hunt the robot down.
Strangebot, fear the day your path will cross with Lawman Brown's.
- Strangebot-309, you stand so proudly in your plight--
- What is ticking in your head behind those blinking lights?
- Deadly data turns your gears--your heart is black as night.

II.

The lawman and his Noble Ten began the search in Kanin--
the Nobles split in groups of two around the Gulf of Aynger.
Lawman Brown went town-to-town, seeking information--
he asked around, but all he found was setback and frustration.
- "Strangebot, I will lay you low", he vowed on Mt. Surrai;
- "You slew the mighty lumberjack and now you have to die."

Strangebot found the Noble Ten on Hurricana Pass;
the hunted seeks the hunters when his patience ends at last.
At first he followed, plotting moves and calculating death--
Electric dirges for his foes who draw their final breaths.
- Strangebot slew the lumberjack and now he strikes again--
- One by one he extirpates the fearless Noble Ten.
- Their screams refrained from mountain tops to the bottom of the sea;
- a thousand miles across the plains the birds could hear them plead.
- Strangebot neither laughed nor cried, he simply did the deed.

Strangebot knew his fortune was to meet with Lawman Brown;
a premonitory confrontation back in Plateau Town.
Dreams of carnage filled his head--decrepit rivers running red,
flags of war among the dead--his motors burned with dread.
- Strangebot-309, a confrontation nearer looms--
- your star-crossed fate seems headed toward the hand of certain doom
- and though your strength is mighty and your powers seem unreal
- you do not realize what you've done because you cannot feel.

III.

Night came down on Plateau Town and thunder filled the night
as Lawman Brown was heading home beneath the lunar light.
The lawman searched from east to west and never found his prey;
his hunt had yielded little as he searched from day to day.
- "I plan to hunt again tomorrow like I did today.
- I won't give in to sorrow, I don't dwell on yesterday.
- A lawman has a job to do, and this is what I say--
- Strangebot, Strangebot-309, I'll take your life away."

And as the lawman spoke these words the rain came pouring down;
the lightning sizzled miles above then crashed upon the ground;
and when it did the lawman saw him--fifty yards ahead--
there stood Strangebot-309 and this is what he said:
- "Death is blowing in the breeze,
- on the land and in the seas;
- and when it comes I'd rather stand
- than die upon my knees."

The lawman knew the time was high for virtue to prevail--
Vengeance for the Noble Ten, who fought to no avail;
Vengeance for the lumberjack--the lawman wouldn't fail.
Justice soon would be secured upon the deluged trail.
- The lawman drew his sabre as he ran toward his foe;
- Strangebot didn't move; he never let his feelings show.
- The lawman screamed, "This is for the lumberjack you slew!"
- ...and as the lightning smote the sky he ran the robot through.

Strangebot stood a moment more, then heavily sat down;
his wiring sparked and crackled as the rain fell all around.
He pulled the sabre from his chest and put it on the ground--
and as his life began to fade he spoke to Lawman Brown.
- "Aren't you going to ask me why I slew the lumberjack?
- Don't you wonder what he did that warranted attack?
- I once gave him a flower, but he crushed it in his hand;
- that is why he had to die. I hope you understand."

And for the first and final time, Strangebot softly wept;
the clouds shed silver tears of pain upon him as he slept.
Lawman Brown from Plateau Town could finally understand
that Strangebot couldn't comprehend the laws that bound the land.
- Strangebot lacked emotions, something humans aren't without,
- but he accepted life was short--he saw it running out.
- "Destiny has closed the circuit", pondered Lawman Brown.
- Wearily he turned and headed back to Plateau Town.

Poem #10--Pipe Dream

2005-01-28T19:34:00.001-05:00

PIPE DREAM

I know this little place down on Third, right past the traffic
light constellation; every now and then, as the evening
wind blows, I drift to that sad destination.
I let down my guard in that shadowy place, feel the tears fill
my eyes as the smile leaves my face. At the Pipe Dream,
a platter of memories and a pitcher of tears is the thing.
Chew on some sorrow, self-pity's an art, cry in the pool room,
sob over darts--it's okay, everyone here feels the same.
Life is a luxury, living's a dream--survival is nothing
but blowing off steam in this dark room; the Pipe Dream's
a bitter success.
Lovely ladies I pass on the street; no handsome bravado, no
chance that I'll meet one and tell her, "You are so divine".
We've all got our problems of various sorts, my problem is
I have none to report--for to lose love you first must have
something to lose.
So I sit here by minute, from hours grow days, and the
years gone behind me are wrapped like a maze--I have nothing,
and no one to share it with.
I'm sitting in back at my table for one, I'm all alone in the
Pipe Dream. I'm waiting for someone to join me for drinks,
I'll be here a while (till the reaper announces last call
for the night).
Believe me, my dearies, my heart is in pieces, broken by
no one at all; defused and confused, my love lies unused--
on the Pipe Dream's hardwood floor.
Deaf from the silence, I twist in the wind like a corpse in a
storm on the sea; a maniac dwells in my personal Hell,
and the Pipe Dream is dark as a grave.
Time is so slow in this cavernous place; time moves so
quickly in life's little race. Time has been ticking inside
of my head--time will be ticking long after I'm dead.
The Pipe Dream won't close till I'm ready to leave, and when
I come back the next time I won't need a key-- 'cause
the Pipe Dream's a hangout for losers like me. It's
haunted, it's scary, but the drinks are all free.
As for this life, this is all I can say--
Love me the next time, like the wind loves the rain.
Love me for trying in spite of the pain.
Love me and hold me, no matter how long...
because down at the Pipe Dream they're singing my song.

Poem #9--The Spiral Staircase

2005-01-28T19:34:00.000-05:00

THE SPIRAL STAIRCASE

Down the spiral staircase I did skip
to another dark, somnambulaic script
and questions faltered after me
faceless voices in agony
and I wish guilt gave death, not life, to dreams.
The moon was so fat and blinding bright
that it cast a false noon across the night
and the shining paths led everywhere
and even seemed to stretch into the air.
And questions faltered after me
like the drums that droned from the watching trees
...forgetting's the only thing to set you free.
Violins, like crickets, filled the night
crooning for the things that steal the light
and organ chords swooped batlike through the sky
trolling for a memory long gone by.
And questions faltered after me
a melee or a symphony
and I just want them all to let me be.
Our bodies lay together bathed in black
she had a fine-tip marker, wrote in blue upon my back
a column left and a column right
a dozen couples' names she writes
her name was paired with someone else
I looked and saw no mention of myself.
And questions faltered after me
words that I can't hear or see
but now I know I'm paired with jealousy.
Beneath the twisted bigtop of my mind
a different haunted house each night I thought I'd left behind
my pond has sharks, I see their fins
I walk a road that never ends
a bull that chases me for miles
the girl I follow through the darkened aisles.
And questions faltered after me
frantic like a hive of bees
I beg but they refuse to hear my pleas.
My stepdad died in 1991
but in my dreams he visits us and then he's got to run
and all the things I left unsaid
I want to tell him, but instead
I wake to face the fact that he is dead.
And questions faltered after me
nagging me incessantly
there's so much more I want my life to be.
Up the spiral staircase I did climb
the journey always ends this way and always just in time
for there is no place I can hide
from all the things I keep inside
the waking world conceals the truth
but sleep provides the burden and the proof.
And questions falter after me
forever more and endlessly
and I wish guilt gave death, not life, to dreams.

Poem #8

2004-12-22T21:13:00.000-05:00

The Hammer and the Anvil

It's not the measure of the man
how he acts when times are good
and he should not be held in judgement
if he's weak when times are bad
sometimes you're the hammer
and sometimes you're the anvil
sometimes you're the iron fist
and sometimes you're the sheet of glass
I am growing weary of a world that's weary of me
and I will turn my back on it
like a girl that doesn't suit me
and if she cries I'll bid her
wipe her tears upon my boot heels
for I have made her burn as fire
and I can leave her cold as March
I can leave her winter-stark
and I can stand behind her
when she thought that I was cornered
sometimes you're the hungry guy
and sometimes you're the flapjacks
sometimes you're the switchblade knife
and sometimes you're the doormat
I will spite and thwart a world that thinks it knows my limits
and I will rain my fury down
on everything that's in it
and if it dies I'll walk away
and if it lives I'll walk away
I can always walk away
and find myself a new world.

Christmas Memories

2004-12-16T14:42:00.000-05:00

My first real Christmas memory was in 1978, when I was four years old. I looked in box which was sitting inexplicably in the middle of the living room floor of our Princeton, WV home, and saw two Star Wars action figures--a jawa and a tusken raider (it also said "sandpeople" on the box, which even then I remember thinking was odd that you'd call a solitary figure "people"). They weren't wrapped. I don't know why.

I've always loved Christmas, probably just because I had great memories of snow and CBS holiday specials from my younger days. I was as greedy as the next spoiled kid, but I loved the magical air of it all. That, in a way, is actually sad and ironic, because Christmas was originally a celebration of Christ's birthday, whatever the actual birthdate was. I don't want to debate on the existence of Christ, either--for me, there's no debate. However strange it may seem, it happened. In the deepest chambers of my soul I know the truth. But throughout time there is the pagan side of the holiday--the tree in the house, all that shit. I don't really look at it that way. I enjoy the holiday season because you can do different things, even FEEL different things, than you feel the rest of the year. My mom and stepdad, Archie, used to string popcorn and put it on the tree. Our Christmas tree was always a thing of immense beauty, healthy and robust. It sat in front of our living room picture window (this is after I moved to the Beckley area), and anyone from the road would look across the pond in the front field and see that tarted-up pine tree staring them proudly in the face.

Too many memories. Too many. December 1978, the same year of the jawa discovery, was a defining moment. On December 17th, Emmett Otter's Jug Band Christmas debuted on HBO. It stands out as the best of all Jim Henson's muppet productions because of Paul Williams' (little Enos on Smokey and the Bandit) great songs and the unique flavor of the show. Emmett and his mother, Alice, are poor. Pa has been dead for a while and they have no money to afford a nice present for each other. I'm not going to rehash the story (especially since I'm writing this for myself and I already KNOW the story), but when my stepfather died in 1991 the show, which has always been special to me, took on more poignancy. Why do I remember the show's debut date? My grandmother called during the show to tell my mother that my Grandpa Tom had died. So maybe Emmett Otter is my grim reaper. Whatever. He died in his bedroom. (My grandpa, not Emmett Otter.)In 1989, my family moved into that house. That same room is where my stepfather died. If my mom dies in there I'm going to set the son of a bitch on fire. But I digress.

A Christmas Story. Everybody loves A Christmas Story. I have to mention it. Also, for some reason, I associate the movies Annie (with Albert Finney, Carol Burnett, Tim Curry, and Aileen Quinn) and Johnny Dangerously (w/Michael Keaton, Griffin Dunne, and Joe Piscopo) with Christmas. Yes, I saw them both around Christmas, but I saw a lot of movies at that time. Those just stand out.

Toys. You know what? My life has been filled with Star Wars stuff. I still have some of my stuff from those days, albeit stored away. I don't decorate with it or play with it (prostitutes are much better for that these days--only kidding. Maybe.), but I sure played with that stuff a lot when I was younger. I had a shitload of it. Maybe I'll go into it later, as a matter of inventory.
Also, He-Man and the Masters of the Universe. I had a great deal of that, and my first MOTU toy was Ram-Man, which I received in Christmas 1982. The same night I saw Annie on HBO, as it turns out. I got a lot of swag for Christmas when I was little, and because of my great imagination, I was endlessly entertained with all of my stuff. I also took very good care of my things.

I used to visit my dad in nearby Holly Hills every Friday after my parents got divorced, and I remember one Christmas (I think it was either '81 or '82) he got me an Atlanta Falcons vest, which has always been in my mind for some reason. He also got me a little fuzzy dartboard with balls instead of darts that just stuck to the board. One of my best memories is when he brought me home with that stuff. As I came through the front door I was spellbound by the house. Our house was humble, but still nice. It was shingled with cedar or some similar kind of siding. There was a healthy, smooth blanket of snow outside and we had big Christmas bulbs around the front of the house. Basic colors--blue, orange, red, green. The look of those colors on the snow has never left me. I feel like I could have died right there and everything would be okay. The wonders of the world mean far less to me than that serene sight when I got out of his truck and crunched my way through the front yard. The pond was fairly frozen and regal. There was that unique winter wind, which I suppose has a particular sound when it's blowing over snowy terrain. I wish you could have been there, whoever might accidentally read this. I can still see it, and it is still Beauty without peer. Inside the house, most of the lights were off except for the Christmas tree lights and candles and Christmasy lights like that. A special evening. I believe that was Christmas eve, somewhere between '81 and '83. I felt like a lucky apparition in some wonderland.

Finally, I am perhaps most fond of all of December 23, 1988. That was a day I spent with my best friend, Mike Bailey. To try and describe him is a waste of time. He always reminded me of Jeff Bridges, for some reason. On December 22 we were in a play at Akers Baptist Church, over which his father, Ardeth Bailey was and still is the pastor. That night we headed back to his house, armed with the brown paper goody-bags that the church handed out that night at the end of the program. The next morning, Mike and I went Christmas shopping with his older brother, Heath. What a great, great day. I bought Helloween's "Keeper of the Seven Keys, Part II" and a couple of comic books (I think some X-Men stuff). We were out all day. That evening, on a whim, we popped over to the Raleigh Mall (this all occurring in Beckley, of course) and watched Hellbound: Hellraiser II (a wonderful movie for the Christmas spirit). I bought a large, gaudy bat ring at a kiosk in the mall and Heath dropped us off at my house. That night, right before midnight, we walked across the road and up just a bit to the parking lot where the post office and a convenience store were located. It was drizzling sleet, we were bored and should have been in bed, and we walked about talking. I looked at my watch after a spell and saw that it was past midnight. Merry Christmas Eve, I told Mike. He wished me the same.

Poem #7

2004-12-14T22:15:00.000-05:00

FTW

Out in the night, beneath the watchful scope
of the icy winter moon
the sanctum sanctorum, the oasis of fun,
had been crankin' in the red since noon.
The gyp-joint was jumpin' from wall to wall
with jackals that had braved the storm
just to get a brief glimpse of the Tickle-Me-Gimps
that had arrived that very morn.
They were shouting "Mine! Mine!" somewhere down
in Aisle 9
and someone lost his teeth in Aisle 6
when he tried to snatch the very last batch
of Hiccup Pick-Up sticks.

Meanwhile, creeping through the store like bloated rattlesnakes
the dealers beat up little kids and steal their piggy banks
they lick their greasy lips and flap their pimple-studded jaws--
the syphilitic, drug-addicted foes of Santa Claus.

And what can we, the keepers of the sacred trust, attempt
that will not leave some customer to view us with contempt?
It's hard to please a pack of wolves or sate a school of sharks
and the ones that say they'll lead us often leave us in the dark.

Out in the black, within the grasp
of the watchful winter night,
when each and every one of us must to our cars take flight,
we try to set our pains behind, our problems all on hold...
but like the ice-encrusted streets, our hearts have all grown cold.

Poem #6

2004-12-13T22:00:00.000-05:00

THE THINGS I SAID AND DID

Like a spear in the breast or a cancerous kid
there's nothing good in what I did
Like a snake in your spaghetti
or barbed wire fence confetti
you must have been unready
for the things I said and did.

No one could be sorrier
or care less than I do
with the way I left one restless night
with a girl that wasn't you.

Like tin foil on a metal filling
or a razor-opened vein that's spilling
I doubt you found it very thrilling
the grief I put you through.

Dilemmas, they are sometimes easy
like an acid reflux when you're queasy
Like biting the head off a chocolate bunny
I can't feel bad when I think it's funny.

Like a bull hanging up in a slaughterhouse
or the snap of the trap on a careless mouse
it can't be pleasant to sit alone
in a spouseless house with a silent phone.

Like a mime at an auction, there are things unsaid
like the bitterness you feel in your empty bed
and both of us are jesters in the Big Parade
but I'm the one who's laughing at the whole charade.

Poem #5

2004-12-12T19:15:00.000-05:00

untitled

The world is a song
and the solo is blue
a weeping vibrato
of cornflower hue
and you're like a footlight
alone on the stage
or maybe a tiger
that paces its cage
and I'm like a blackbird
alone in a tree
I flap and I caw
but no one will see
and we are like feathers
adrift, but not free
and I float by you
and you float by me.

Poem #4

2004-12-11T16:38:00.000-05:00

City Streets

Walking down the crowded street in night time's strangling summer heat, observing people that I meet.
Owl-Eyes draws attention first because he is a hoot;
those gaping, gawking blinking peepers give my soul the creeper-jeepers.
If I had a shotgun I am sure that I would shoot.
Owl-eyes' orbs are darting round and looking in my head--
he notes that I am noting him, he wishes I was dead.
I simply keep on walking through the streets I'm doomed to tread.
Slick-hair stands so proudly in the spotlight of his mind;
small talk is his language as he leaves the truth behind.
Red-lips listens to his words, thinking with her thighs--
she'll be seduced, and when she's spent, he'll tell a few more lies.
Upsetting as the idea is, it's hardly a surprise.
Drink-mouth lies in night's embrace, wrapped in shadow's cloak;
I do not stare, I would not dare--by chance I might provoke.
Walking fast I move on past but Drink-mouth doesn't care.
Drinking from his paper bag he meets no sound or stare.
I reciprocate the favor and maintain my solemn air.
Wolf-pack roams the city streets in search of thrills and fun;
Crazy-mind is right behind and kills them with a gun.
I listen to them scream, as much in pain as in surprise--
and secretly I wish that I could look into their eyes.
I never would confess that I had wanted them to die,
but people make me crazy--though I really don't know why.
Notwithstanding Crazy-mind I choose to keep my pace;
I'll walk and hope the streets can lead me from this lonely place.
A million people out to get me, none to call my friend;
I have no lovers on this block, there's none around the bend.
I hate the strangling summer heat, I hate the crowded city streets,
I hate the people that I meet.
I'll move on through the ghastly days and one day I'll be dead;
Until then I'll keep walking through the streets I'm doomed to tread.

Poem #3

2004-12-10T17:09:00.002-05:00

LESBIAN KISS

A lesbian kiss would be quite amiss
'cause three, counting me, is a crowd
the bar scene is tough and a night storm more fun
when it comes to being dark and being loud.
A blindfolded girl tied up on a bed
seems great if she's paid by the hour
and somewhere out there is a suave debonaire
who is plucking some young maiden's flower.
The men's greedy eyes trace the hips and the thighs
of the unknowing girls as they pass
and the guy down the street doesn't realize the women
all study his bulge and his ass.
You've been an abuser and I've been a user
and we've both been as guilty as sin
but love ain't worth shit if you don't nurture it
and your life will be vain in the end.
So knock off the bathroom-and-magazine action
that tops off your loneliest days
and hey, all you flirts with your silk miniskirts,
don't you know there's an easier way?
You don't need that guile you call feminine wiles
and men, you don't need to tell lies
a life without romance is a life that has no chance
so go for the meaningful prize--
The name of the game isn't Fortune and Fame
and life's finest treasure's not Lust
'cause if you truly love someone you already know
that the greatest of all things is Trust.

Poem #2

2004-12-10T17:09:00.001-05:00

BLACK CAT, MOONSHADOW, NIGHTSHADE SONG

Black Cat, Moonshadow, Nightshade Song
I'll give a little wisdom and it won't take long
I've been around the block before and you should know
I've seen a lot of pretty faces come and go.

Orange blossom dynamite, thrill-kill thighs
the kind that put the pennies on a dead man's eyes
midnight socialite, two o'clock tease
the pheremone chain gang's got the disease.

Swag miner, grift witch, bird of prey
I see you at the counter as you make your play
I watch them from the darkness as they drool and crave
you think you're such a pro; you're gonna be my slave.

White china, blue blood, sweet red wine
I've got a silver tongue and I'm looking fine
my lightning left hand reaching for your knee
you're laughing at my jokes and the drinks are on me.

Love transfusion, fit to be tied
pretty peach panties torn off at the sides
afterglow shackles, firebrand hiss
seduction is a lock and the key is a kiss.

Fish hook charms put your heart to the test
I hear you come from money, you could help me invest
we'll start a little diner and we'll get it on track
and when we make a fortune I can pay you right back.

Life savings, gold rings, platinum cards
I'm gonna wring you out, gonna squeeze you hard
pyrite happiness, tarantula trust
till the bottom drops out and the love turns to rust.

Blacktop, motorcourt, chalk outline
I've been a lot of places and I'm feeling fine
I've got a little secret out in Tennessee
it's in an open field by the willow tree.

Sandman, tryptophan, bedroom sweat
I'm gonna make you sleepy, gonna make you forget
that there's a black cloud coming with treacherous rain
it's going to bring you wisdom and a measure of pain.

Vampire, incubus, skeleton smile
supple young heiress of a posthumous trial
double-helix leaf piles caper and spin
windchimes clatter as they warn of the end.

A black cat crossed you on the road tonight
but the shadows of the moon hid it from your sight
I'm waiting in your kitchen with some nightshade tea
I'll have to force it on you, it's a grim recipe.

Black car, back seat, bag and a spade
we're gonna take a trip to the Everglades
I didn't love you long but I loved you best
and now I'll take your money and head out west.

California's nice, or so I hear
and the girls are ripe this time of year
soon I'll teach another one to sing along
to the Black Cat, Moonshadow, Nightshade Song.

Poem #1

2004-12-10T17:09:00.000-05:00

Looking for a Girl

I'm looking for a girl with swimming pool eyes
a laser-beam smile and Dreamsicle thighs
a Powder Keg Romeo's rodeo prize--
ask me no questions and I'll heave you no sighs.

I'm looking for a girl with four on the floor
a two-way street and an open door
with a soft cotton candied apple cinnamon core--
if morals are money I'm incredibly poor.

I'm looking for a girl with machine gun hips
an easy double action and a custom grip
with trapdoor, tripwire cherry bomb lips--
I try to track her down but she gives me the slip.

I'm looking for a girl with a hot tub kiss
a lemon-slick tongue with a glycerine twist
and bubble bath cheerleader champagne bliss--
if Cupid shot an arrow he apparently missed.

I'm looking for a girl in spray-on denim,
leopard print fashions and a passion to skin 'em
a snake-charming wiggle with toe-curling venom--
I've played a lot of games but can't seem to win 'em.

I'm looking for a girl with a latex-snug,
sugar-covered, honey-smothered hot oil hug
with fuzzy pink cuffs and a bearskin rug--
I'm just a Cassanova but they call me a thug.

I'm looking for a girl with nothing to lose
who wants to take me home and show me all her tattoos
and stand up on my bed in her stiletto-heel shoes--
I'm looking for a girl but it's so hard to choose.

I'm looking for a girl, she's out there, I know
we're gonna let the music and the chardonnay flow,
turn each other on and turn the lights down low--
she's waiting on her man to come; I'm ready to go.

A Few Good Beers

2004-12-05T20:43:00.000-05:00

Welcome to the first post (and, quite possibly, the last) of Sullen Thrills. Seeing as how you've probably ended up here by mistake I'm going to limit the big welcome to that.
Tom's the name. I live in West Virginia. I have a beard and I like junior bacon cheeseburgers. There, now we've met, we're friends (and may possibly marry), and I can tell you about a few good beers that I have drunk.

Beckley, West Virginia is a drab little town, but it is my home. We don't have a lot of the things that the large megalopolises have (or is that "megalopoli"? I never studied the Greek language. It's all Greek to me.), but we do have many eateries and lots of beer. Nope. No local microbreweries with Sweet Tart Beer, or Maple Syrup Pancake Stout. We buy our beer from Kroger's, or Food Lion (or my own future grocery store, Grocery Tiger), or from a gas station located somewhere in central Wherethefuckareweville. It is my lonely task to tell you which beers are good and which beers are pig's garbage. A friend of mine, who lives in Connecticut, has sailed all about the world and has gorged himself on many brews that I'll never have the privilege of drinking. Therefore I'm admitting right off the bat that I'm not the most informed beer drinker around, and I don't want to be. Everybody just HAS to be the bee's knees at everything. Everybody just has to be a fucking know-it-all. Well, I don't know it all, but I'll tell you what I DO know.

#1--Don't drink JW Dundee's Honey Brown Ale. It tastes like vomit. Yes, if you drink enough of any beer, they will eventually taste like vomit. But they shouldn't taste like it coming out of the bottle. It should taste like vomit when you are vomiting later that evening.

#2--The best-tasting beer in this world is Samuel Adams Boston Ale. NOT Boston Lager, which is also delicious. Ale. To quote (and slyly rip off) Alex DeLarge from "Clockwork Orange": "It's like silvery wine flowing in a spaceship." Actually, that was a paraphrase, but so what......

#3--If you are ever at Charley's Pub in Fayetteville, WV, please ask for a bottle of Samuel Smith's Oatmeal Stout. Yep, any beer whose name is Samuel is a good beer. If you find a beer whose name is Raoul Marquez, DO NOT drink it. You won't see another sunrise. Anway, Charley's Pub is only about two miles from the famed (if you live there) New River Gorge Bridge, the world's biggest single-arch bridge. You actually may have a close friend or relative who has jumped off of it. Anyhoo--the beer is really good. And (never start a sentence with "and") the last time I was there, Deep Purple's live version of Highway Star was one of the selections, and it's a great song--especially when most of the guys in the bar are lumberjacks or river guides and none of them like that kind of hippie shit. Also, when you've gotten a really good buzz from your Oatmeal Stout, you should play Stranglehold by Ted Nugent.

#4--Here are some excellent beers to quaff, my young stewards: Sam Adams Cream Stout, Scotch Ale, Hefeweizen, and the aformentioned; Leinenkugel's Honey Weiss; Guiness Stout (although a REAL Irishman will kick you in the wedding tackle for drinking it refrigerated); Grolsch lager; Dos Equis; Negra Modelo (it has its moments); Molsen Ice and Molsen Golden; let's just leave it at that for now. I've read these things before--too many items on a list is a sedative and nothing more.

#5--These beers suck. Any Budweiser (unless your only criteria is to get "fucked up"); Heineken (overrated); Beck's (the same); Oh hell, who cares? Also, don't drink any kind of draft cider. They all taste like shite. Woodchuck? Shit. Hornsby's? Shit. Also, one year on Christmas Eve I was drinking Ernest & Julio Gallo Burgundy wine whilst listening to the Carpenter's (this is, if anything ever is, a Sullen Thrill) and I wouldn't recommend that. The wine, anyway. Actually, the Carpenter's were pretty good, if you're in that sort of mood.

Well, that wraps up my very first B.inarily L.ogged O.riginal G.raffiti. I hope you found it to be a singular, orgasmic experience. Until next time, may all of your jumpers hit nothing but the bottom of the net.

T.O.M.