FAR-FLUNG 7 DIRTY WORDS (Ode to George Carlin)

Shit!
There is no other, with the same oomph,
At least not now that’s come along.
Those shoes were lengthy and wide,
So far-flung, extreme, and beyond
Our tepid grasp of the funny side.
Piss!
When wit ascends from such living
And with it our down-turned lips
We take notice and are better for it;
Embraced in truth’s rampant laughter,
Held skyward by its power to amend.
Fuck!
I’m going to miss his words, all of them,
Like the world forgot how to converse.
Cunt,
As if our mouths have been sewn shut,
Unable to speak, pursed in eternal pucker.
Cocksucker
Sealed tight and bleeding blamelessly,
Unmoving, wide-eyed and barefacedly.
Motherfucker
Out there, somewhere, ready to stand-up,
Comedians and comediennes with fabulous wits
Tits
Prepared to make their voices known
Fart
Over the roar of loss of one of their own,
Ready to stand in the bright glow of titillation,
Turd
Atop the reverberating ground of merriment,
Twat
With eyes wide open, unflinching, fearless,
Prepared to deliver the brilliant lines we crave.

We call to you! Stand-up! Lug our heavy light
across the stage! Strike our mouths without mercy!
Again and again! Burst our lips in laughter!



© 2008 mrp/tpm





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RUSH RUSH II

Limbaugh: I want to know. I look at Iowa, I look at Illinois—I want to see the murders. I want to see the looting. I want to see all the stuff that happened in New Orleans. I see devastation in Iowa and Illinois that dwarfs what happened in New Orleans. I see people working together. I see people trying to save their property…I don’t see a bunch of people running around waving guns at helicopters, I don’t see a bunch of people running shooting cops. I don’t see a bunch of people raping people on the street. I don’t see a bunch of people doing everything they can…whining and moaning—where’s FEMA, where’s BUSH. I see the heartland of America. When I look at Iowa and when I look at Illinois, I see the backbone of America.

(More on Crooks and Liars.)


-LETTER TO RUSH LIMBAUGH-

Rush,
You goddamned, miserable, hypocritical, no-good, lowly, discriminatory, soul-sucking, malevolent, blood-born, bigoted, crazed, putrid, purgatorial-palpitating, ill-mannered buffoon! How dare you speak as the hallowed headmaster, superintendent, proprietor, sanctimonious distributor and arrogant dictator of this world’s misery!

O! Thy hollow, depraved soul is skewed

and sliding down an aural hole of agony;

a foul cavern as evil and as violated

as the servitude to an empire’s domination.

It shouldn’t take a flood to fill thee with humbleness, you blithering windbag!
Or a hurricane to elevate thy spirit out of the muck, you inappropriate pinhead!

And from this abyss, with swaying havoc mad,

as if thy words and jagged huff were God’s sway,

You rage that the black people are what caused such water-filled sorrow;

inferior form, a black shade!

Nor, dear Rush,
should it take a natural disaster to bathe integrity over thy soul, you glib, gutless gobbet!
Or a tragedy to soak thy dark heart with a love for mankind, you insignificant imp!

You're a Goddamned cretin!

A rigid, bile-crammed carcass

Wrenching thy darkness across our air and ears,

Years now, tormenting even those who’ve died for thee!

Thy fans are desolation’s addicts, you, their conduit!

Your spineless, pallid rage and horrifyingly insipid calculation
Shall never bring about even an nth of goodness?
Or have thou other, more baleful plans?
Is this despicable, gloom-filled diatribe your raison de’tre?

In this loudness thou hast reached boundless despicability

and firmly sunk into turmoil upon thy egocentric airwave.

Yes! We’ve been idle witness to thy feckless disgrace! No more!
Come! Come, Rush! Bring thy arrogant god and its uselessness!
We’ll be waiting…

Sincerely,
thepoetryman’s muse

© 2008 mrp/tpm

UNPRECEDENTED

It is of this moment that we will be remembered… In our lifetime we’ve neared several impossible dreams but none quite like this; the dream of one man, one nation rising up to heights that were once unheard of, seemingly insurmountable. Now a new struggle begins, the precedent’s been set, and it’s up to us and the nuance of history to construct an even greater one. Yes. Yes. The unprecedented height of Martin Luther King Junior’s dream wrapped in immense struggle, awash in the blood of the black man, is now so tangible and so very near; unparalleled in the history of these United States where men and women are “free”, where they have the vote, where freedoms ring, where- Wait!

Hold on one goddamned second!
Son of a bitch! I think the film is rolling backward?
Or maybe the script was written from the last act forward?
Where’s the writer? Get the goddamned writer in here pronto!
There’s more than one? Well get them all in here!
Most of them are dead? Dead?
Well get me a fucking writer that breathes goddamnit!
What the hell is that supposed to mean,
‘Those that are alive don’t even know they’re the authors’?
What the hell is that supposed to mean, huh?
Sounds stupid! You’re fired! What do you mean I can’t do that?
I’m the damned director of this film!
What do you mean I’m not the director?
If I’m not then why am I sitting in this chair? Huh?
Who, besides me, is this hard up for cash?
So strapped that they’ll direct a movie that even Cinemax wouldn’t touch?
Huh, shithead? Tell me who?

‘Them’? Who? 'Them'? Who the hell is 'them'?
The people? All of them?
Holy Christ…
Is the budget big enough to pay this many extras?
What do you mean they’re not extras?
Leads? You mean everyone has a leading role?!

Oh. Oh. I get it.
Yes. I see now. The people. We the people.
This- this is the unfinished script,
written backward by ‘we the people’
without a director…
Well this is a hell of a fine way to find out.
I do feel better now. Yes.
It makes a hell of a lot more sense.
I mean what the hell else could explain such an unprecedented undertaking?
Otherwise it would be impossible.
But still…

How is it possible-
that in an age of such a shredded foundation,
that in an age of such unprecedented warring,
that in an age of such unequaled corruption and
terrible sadness that a moment as this could come?

How is it possible-
that we now proceed with this stunning milestone,
that we march onward in the footprints of revolution
though the course is not curved of our choosing
and the strident shriek of the dying cover our skies?

How is it possible-
with the end written before the bright and new beginning,
with our expectations rutted in dishonest obligation,
with the world’s eyes peering down into our shame
that our pathway is not ruled by immeasurable detonation?

How is it possible-
that the air that we scorch doesn’t blink or make a sound
as we push and shove our burning way through it
with sorrow at our flank speaking of others as mere fodder
for our wholly unrestrained hubristic nourishment?

How is it possible-
That this plot has begun at the end of such torturous ire,
at the back of gloom instead of the heart of illumination?
That this story even has words like hope and change within it
is certainly the most astounding thing of all!

© 2008 mrp/tpm

ObamaRama - History in the Making via Stereohyped...

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