....From The Tree Of......................The Ranting Critic
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_______________________________________________________ Tits On A Bull Fall for it, every time. The words, 'warning, explicit content' tagged to the end of a title, produces in nearly every case, a juvenile over-estimation of its saltiness; is, in fact, a mile wide of the bull's-eye, leaving me to wonder just what convent they've escaped from, or how long the writer's been their own sly publicist. Deliver or desist with this. Fuck that makes me mad. Same Auld Lang Zyne People don't change as much as sway a little, toward the better for a time until the thwuck! back! to where they came from, padding after things- all except the recent soul-expansion felt for a few months, which was a flipping blip of radar on the screen - until the light goes green to yellow and they're left alone a moment .................................................with their t-h-o-u-g-h-t-s--- and soon they're stuck in old time ruts, ya-hooing to friendly heads there in the distance, known so well once, even their hair smelled close. Habit makes fine company and yes, I do suppose I know that thwuck is not a word ..............................................but when you're out here on a limb you make em up instead of relying on that dependable standby, 'fuck'; you know, the one still wows the crowd and keeps em happy whatever the context, whatever lip it leapt from, perks em up. Helps if the gender's female; fuck, yeah adds some ......-juice. Gone A Hunting The real cowards lie in pools of salty dreams, spinning yesterday like some new weave, make it seem that they are M.I.A. when they're just hiding yet another face. How MANY of those things do you have? But if ever they do come out again be sure their ass is mine and in the crosshairs of my sawed off; I never forget a face no matter how they seem to change. The Bleeder Squeeze, squeeze, bleed that heart and watch the suckers lick up every drop. Transfuse it with old blood when it is empty then, just move along from time to time and even though the new juice scabbed up long ago, they'll wonder how one man can bleed so much; then comes the Laurels and the Lauries and the love, so keep it pumping... Fakirs In Response To 911 There are those who beat their breasts and say we've brought this on ourselves, throw guilt around like sacred incense: moaners, lamentation experts, pseudo-eastern Bodhisattvas sipping Zinfandel professing pain: "It's all a circle, karmic debt, they are our brothers- do not- we are- they and we-are-one with all, and we-are-one weareoneweareones...."--well hey, LOOK! someone just blew Alan Watts to fucking Zenland; time to grow up now flower children. Smell the jet fuel. Chemical Art When you slip a pill into the brain to bloom it open, flowers that grow aren't yours, they aren't even real. They're petals filled with the iron rusted taste in the back of a cracked throat. Gardens they produce, seduce; sucking from the same dry well in a garden of shipwrecked rutters, beached and blithering to ghosts of gone faces. (I know that rutter's not a word so I make it one): A rutter is a person with inordinate sexual longing but without a partner who understands. Poetry's mostly about that, too. Weed and drink's been done to death: a finer vintage, smoother scotch does not a Scott Fitzgerald make, but fools who write of fools impressing both. So please, dear God- do keep me from the thirsty and the thirsty word, but mostly, Loving Savior- from the ones who signify it with the suffering voice of art. Same Old How often in my life I've seen men throw away their brains because of a flipping female tail attached to ringlets and not much else, so that after the tumescence fades words fall like bathroom tiles unglued from all the steamy sex and gooey lunacy of the moment and the man will lift his words one after the other try to make some sense- pave a common road to reach from he to she before it hits him, cold as the North Sea surf: there is no turf on earth that he could stand an hour in with her, and simply talk... so the empty headed heartbreakers, experienced, will make a preemptive clicking out the door on little girl feet -red shod, with a kind of fuck your mommy span of wicked heel, headed toward another Jack or Johnny who's a meal ticket with an over-active crotch and a heart he knows is full of song, poor stupid sod. Paramecia Are Not Human If all blended into one gray blob of godhead, nothing dividing one thing or one person from another, not one sin or one sensation, if we are in the protozoan, one-celled tub of real, then punch my ticket now; the only safety from this ogling EyE of AlL is spare monasticism; cement between the minds and souls where only silence answers me and only in the silence, am I heard in ways that bring an understanding. I have a place to keep each wondrous eyelash separate; they're the cilia of my soul and must have space to wave. Their waving is my voice: the uvula of poetry. Detachment is a choice I've made when all around me rise orgasmic cries of fusion. Nail It Over The Door A poem should not beat with a stick until, by the end of it your dick and death are all that you are sure of anymore. Little Bonapartes The smaller they are the bigger they talk the harder they sell, the faster they dance their romance with the notion they've conquered the world, or a weird little piece of it -Elba, not Asia. Melba toast at a cocktail party not a loaf of honest bread that takes the time to rise, for that requires some mystery, some discipline closed petals filled with saffron colored pollen. It's the nourishment of larger men with pens for smaller portals, ones that take work for truth on a dirk that probes much deeper than they'll ever go, those scattergun, everything's poetry, pitiful publican poets. On To Page 8 .............. Return To Contents This site sponsered by 
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