....From The Tree Of......................The Ranting Critic
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_______________________________________________________ Unreasonable Request It pisses me off that someone whom I loathe, can like the same rare things of beauty. Why don't they live in a world with things just like themselves? A world of mirrors, o now- that would be de licious. Every book would be some predigested pap and every movie would be hyped-up putri fication by say, Zalmon King. Zombies, Or Whatever Else Is Sucking You Dry That movie where the zombies kept a comin so's the only thing on earth that coulda stopped em was a head shot- you ever see that pitcher, know the one? Them creatures was familiar as my own back yard. Stubborn they was, strong like mean old weeds. They weren't any life inside a tall, cept a hunger mebbee, wantin what you got, a life, a voice beyond the gruntin feed me feed me sound they seem to be so fond of. Them galdern Zombie people with or without the Hollywood George Romero experteeze are harmful things what need to be put down. Dontchu just wound em. Walk away, cuz once you turn yore back, they be suckin out your spine them galdern creepy cocksuckers need a damn good head shot that's fer galdern shure. Hogwash I don't care who says the poem is a master and the poet, slave--that's sheer and total nonsense. It's all about the writer and his pen; about what strange and mustang creatures he has running through his brain, making all the ruckus. It's not a holy mission. If you get in close, the only voice- the only one to take the blame or reap the praise, is his, bleeding execution of a feeling into form, like taking night and making day of it, to see each creeping corner, every golem and deformed star. A writer writes of tits, and someone reading, writes a poem about sucking them- but floridly, lasciviously he's called that creature out just as surely as if he'd sacrificed a lamb; he's conjured purple prose because he needs it. It wasn't Uncle Howdy checking in or rapping in the attic on a Ouija: he was crazy cross-eyed lonely-- it was written in his voice with his own hand without a question of a host--it was the bending of a man to his own desperado ghost who won't lie down. Poets are children, playing in the rubble telling stories to imaginary friends. The stories are from nowhere but a corner way down deep where we're entirely on our own, and that's so scary we pretend we have some com pany. To Know Your Place Ululate's a word on speaking terms with Paradigm. I run two steps ahead of them and if they ever catch me I can never go back home again, where simple folk will sit in comfortable chairs, their faces straight and plum; they look me square in the eye, not with the puffed up nonsense of the other ones. Open Mouth Insert Foot Practicing homiletics, the seminary student cleared his throat, shifted side to side, gripped the wooden lectern no less wood than he-- began a panicked casting out for thoughts. He sank his line into a fishless sea, and said the thing that ever after would be used by teachers to illustrate how being a fool will not bring souls to Christ, or save a temporal life: "Suicide is a serious step." Searching Caches From a distance I begin to get a sense of clarity, and what I see amazes me in that the patterns were played out time and again so much more foolishly, but then you were years younger, without benefit of my unique gifts. You were, as they say, a damned fool for pussy- and I notice too, that it never took much to make you lose your dignity: usually, a squeaky young one did it. For Those Of Us Who Are Dunces My whole life, I never got the bastards right. Married one, worked for one, mentored by one, and never did see signs. I think there should be skin tattoos or flashing lighted cautions posted, nice and friendly before you get a tit bit, getting close to them. Stop Gap The next time your computer screen blinks love love love you are hearing not reality, but a facile way to pay lipservice to what is so much more demanding than handy pixel promises from fingertips pecking half a world away, yet you blubber like an infant. That's right- pull up the covers now; lie yourself to sleep while all around your daily life is showing bone, and dying of starvation. The Farewell Note I looked for some measure of grace before departing, but typical of what has happened in the past, all I received in what I held in hands cupped gently as for holding a baby bird- is a piss-stained cum-stained note, offered as communion; base and unredeemable. It held nothing but human cast off DNA, not music- and never had, I'd only somehow convinced myself that it was holy, and I can't tell you how sad that makes me- these excuses to write of piss and cum; they are the sniggerings of an adolescent, but others will still believe it to be music- will dance and sing of it like a second Solomon's Song. I. The Hunt It seems your favorite current word is 'hellacious', doubtless, for it has within the name of your home town. I'm fascinated still, by those who claim your interest, and I'm always right about the bottom line: young, eager for notice, and most importantly, possible to ensnare. You are a bear, foraging. II. Hunted or Hunter My dear, you say you are as silk- silk slides off, so you are as much as silk, as vel cro is,br> or flypaper- catching who knows what, my little lady bug. Silk itself would be a thing takes time to weave, never proclaiming its own name, but something secret spun, so fine a skein its veins are felt, not flags. One thing you did do masterfully---the line you filled in with stu dent- is the finest pheromone you could have chosen. Return To Contents This site sponsered by 
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