Poem: The Morning After

The time is now, that much is certain

to everyone, for everyone, too

much is certain, stores running short

of confidence, seeing the past and the future

superimposed, something must and is

happening now in people’s exploding

minds, afire and that’s all it takes

to start a real revolution, the revolt of the revealed

tearing everyone’s blinders off.

 

Or, spit on the ground, cleat it

with steel, make a stomping splash

sound effect, goose-stepping

our discarded hopes, forgetting the ancient

wisdom seeping up again

from the dirt, feasting on death

as flowers eat the sun, every factorial cataclysm

shows that the sky is higher

than ever, before we finally see

god, the devil and a rapturous war.

 

More than likely neither, of course

because whatever happens, the heart beats

like nothing, it lasts forever

as far as you know, in the end

it will come too soon, so justly

we wander on, taking what comes

clean and dusted as best

we can, say yes half-heartedly

again, but not for a while.

Poem: The Morning After

Poem: Really, No Comment 2

The world will end in plasma

tax rioting, all stabbing all feeling life in the flow

of blood there is much made, to be

the known and to know, your fellow man

but not in his origin, or where he comes

and for what?  We are not shadows

from before making mountains

of planted flags, we are a king

unless we’re dead, which is the way of the now.

Poem: Really, No Comment 2

Poem: Coin Toss

Vague histrionic pronouncements breed conspiracy theories and underground movements

aborted feebly, forever filibustering empty space with tasseled sheets of ice

arraigned in rows, rafter spies whetting razors on brown

straps pinned next to the mirror whispering siren songs, reciting a list

of future checkmarks to make with a black iron soul deaf to fear and pain

as long as it’s your own because we’re all pawns and it sucks

the big one, none of us is together with anyone or reconciled

to our own boiling scar tissue, looking like Lorenzo for a cure, we will find soulless.

 

Liquid therapy or et cetera to change the angle of incidental reflectance

that I have with reality sometimes, though on others it’s a myth-making mirror

and I can see satirical catchphrases raining like mana with movie

deals and halloween costumes, but I feel like Alex being cured

and screaming in pain, flowing rusty record scratch sensation

of tin foil flavored ice cream every night after dinner, so eyes up to see

the path before you is but terrors anyway, so sizzle your veins and solid your blood.

 

Time is the final arbiter, the scale pit and glory at once

together bumping bright holes in the sky, clouds tearing like

tissues apart with lava liquid pouring from the sky in a stream

to the ground, flowing the harbinger of what’s been earned

as well as given so in the end we’ll all get it, and after the reckoning

I’ll see you unless I don’t, because good luck is all that we have.

Poem: Coin Toss

Poem: Arise

We can’t be the stupid people anymore, doing what couldn’t

and shouldn’t be done, disciples line behind my back

to show those big shots what’s what, you must know that they speak lies

but I never will, and everything will be buttercream in the future

with turbo and badass rock guitar, Jesus is gonna come

burning satan’s dumb pawns, because our lack of faith

brought vengeance christ, extracting his price

with an apocalypse, of which I am harbinger

arbiter in a breath, signaling and leading the line two

up a lighting street, trombones and baritones

blare arrhythm joy, concluding in rouse

until days later, the landscape is naught.

 

Burned barns are all over the place, downtown are the wicked

brokers and lenders, way downtown till they’re

non grata to everyone, even those in tatters

becoming more numerous, by the day they strike out

blaring with fire and dazzle, feathers on their hats

shine hope out their eyes, but their judgment comes

on a turn rolled card, ending up in the pokey

or an office chain gang, made and born to fall

in line and keep a low voice, dormant till the next

time an ignition sparks, and fire is every thing

when all are things aflame, so leave them be

because we are all dead, but think our corpses

will nourish the soil in eons, for though all childless

and alone bodies now, we were the true shepherds.

Poem: Arise

Movie Review: Dr. Strangelove or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb (1964)

Dr. Strangelove or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb (1964)

Director: Stanley Kubrick

Writer: Stanley Kubrick, Terry Southern, (novel by) Peter George

Starring: Peter Sellers, George C. Scott, Sterling Hayden

Dr. Strangelove is brilliant satire, and while it deals with themes of apocalyptic importance, it never fails to be riotously funny.  In 1963, burgeoning auteur Stanley Kubrick won the rights to adapt “Red Alert,” a serious-as-hell paranoid fantasy about the beginning of a nuclear war between the U.S. and Russia.  He and screenwriter Terry Southern struggled to adapt the novel, eventually coming to the decision that the events described in the novel were so terrifying that they could not be handled seriously.  So the two of them changed course, creating one of the most brilliantly hilarious pieces of political satire ever conceived.  In the film, an American base commander launches a surprise nuclear strike on many targets inside Russia, unwittingly triggering a Russian “doomsday devise” that could wipe out all life on Earth.  This film, brilliant as it is, could never have worked without the efforts of certified comedy genius Peter Sellers, who tackles three of the film’s central roles.

Using his native British accent, Sellers first plays group captain Lionel Mandrake, whose put-upon stammer provides the audience with its clearest surrogate.  This character is desperate, terrified, and absolutely professional.  Later in the film Sellers reappears as the eponymous Dr. Strangelove, using a ludicrous German accent and seemingly random vocal emphasis to portray the character’s madness.  His greatest performance of the film, however, comes in his portrayal of U.S. President Merton Muffley.  The sequence in which Muffley, on the verge of tears, explains the situation to Russian head Premeir Kissoff, is an absolute comedic masterpiece.  Though Sellers’ powerhouse performances dominate the film, three other brilliant and likewise hilarious performances are turned in by Sterling Hayden, George C. Scott, and Slim Pickens.

Slim Pickens plays T.J. “King” Kong, the American pilot ordered to attack Russia, and he fills the role with good-natured flair, portraying a man who, just by doing his job as well as he can, may end up destroying the world.  George C. Scott plays General “Buck” Turgidson, a towering buffoon who chews gum as if it owes him money.  Sterling Hayden’s performance as General Jack D. Ripper is hilariously stern and insane.  I’ve seen the film more times then I can recall, but I can never not guffaw when General Ripper speaks of “The international communist conspiracy to sap and impurify all of our precious bodily fluids.”

Beyond these masterpieces of comic acting, Kubrick filles the screen with visual jokes as funny as any I’ve ever seen.  In the war room General Turgidson (Scott) sits in front of a binder labeled “World Targets in Megadeaths,” and as a large machine gun constantly fires, we see directly behind it a billboard that reads “Peace is our Profession.”  General Ripper pulling a gigantic machine gun out of his golf club satchel, and Kong (Pickens) describing the contents of his own survival pack (“…Two lipsticks, two pair of nylon stockings…”) all add to the comedically enhanced reality of the film.  Dr. Strangelove is satire at its highest form, saying important things about meaningful topics, and it makes me laugh every time I see it.

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Movie Review: Dr. Strangelove or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb (1964)

Poem: Craisinella Rain

Artificially red from the sky over the inner city before the coming of the trucks,

it’s a tasty sticky-sweet super fruit mishmash, citizens have collection methods and sell pouches of it on street corners,

toxic slurry is mildly addictive, droves of children emerge all at once with their personal pots and pans,

immunization time and everyone comes with us, really it’s birth control and cataloging,

high servant class desperation is all they can really hope to hope for, but there are outliers,

the exception and not the rule lords their destinies in a finely tuned chord.

 

We tell them anything’s possible and it is in a sorta way but really it’s not,

“Remember when you didn’t have a dime?” fills stadiums with starry eyes and empty wallets,

dusky government addictions seep from on high, through the media zeitgeist,

all really needed is a tuning fork, set them to a mildly unhappy thirst quotient according to their station,

the psychobioheredity of class was finally codified in 2237, making things simple for all of us.

The occasional docudrama softens not our resolve, but now what we call out blood red perfection,

chance provides us our station, rolling triple sixes all day, proclaiming it as unearned provides a soulful contrition.

Invisible is the other way, so they head into their grinders filling out proper forms and wearing I.D. badges,

sustaining petroleum vaseline receptacle omnipresent, it’s everywhere

everyone look under their seats, you might find a peasant child compartment, congratulations.

 

Peasant children fetch six figures, easy, but that’s inhumane,

so just loan them to aristocrats with floors to scrub, and sometimes cocks to suck,

it’s sad but true reality, phasing through in flashes all superimposed,

lash yourself with the image, poor kids flashed, ignored and ridiculed, molested by adoptive parents,

business is business, and every cent you don’t leave for your children is a stain on your spirit

Poem: Craisinella Rain