....From The Tree Of......................The Ranting Critic
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_______________________________________________________ Intellectual Raunch Of all the sadly obvious in this world, I've found a bright mind on a rug to be the crudest, most pathetic statement of 'I'm fucked up' of any I can name, it says: "My life is total, emotional chaos please come rescue me- and by the way, didya happen to look hard enough to see myass? I doanwear undies." I'm sure I'd get plenty of argument for broken lives and reasons for hysteric behavior, la dee dah...but I honestly have to tell ya- for a picture in a bio of a writing forum complete with included credits -this one's NUTS. Not Red, White and Black and Blue When Hollywood puts its clumsy hands around something as painful as Viet Nam, the writers write in crayon: red white and blue, stay in the lines and throw some music at it swelling up in sadness. Nothing of truth for those who lived it. Civilians who survive today recall the evening footage strangely unfittable and awkward in the Laugh-In culture, sock-it-to-me tiers of open and shutting doors: news would open it, the public would slam it shut again unwilling to acknowledge what was happening. As if someone had walked into an Alabama church in those Wallace years and yelled out loud, 'Hey, where's everybody hang their niggers here?'- it wasn't a rah-rah time of rabid patriotism. And unless you went to Kent or Berkeley, had somebody over there, the average person ignored as much as possible, believing with the three assassinations, we deserved a little fun. 'We were soldiers once and young'--that was the Second War, Mel Gibson not Viet Nam. Tradition At fifty one years old, I've taken stock in ways that paint me weird. but I refuse another season with a censor in my head: the one who points; points at holidays directing me to act as though I feel a gathered anyway. Then afterward, asked if I'd enjoyed the day my mind would panic, groping blindly for response for it had nothing to do with enjoyment, and everythin with duty- so if holidays ought to be enjoyed, I'll have mine quiet please: a day of sleeping late getting up when it's dark to stare at lights I didn't frantic myself in stringing. To hear holiday music -the only part of that season worth a hill of beans, to finally feel Christmas come in quietly a meditative gift Thanksgiving will run to drumsticks, football, folding chairs in living room fun without me; I was never there, except that they could see me, noise is where I won't be starting now, I'll be having my holidays spare; they are reflective days that never really had the chance to be themselves. This sudden change of heart saddens my mother who learned it from hers, who learned it from hers that a family should try and come together. Whoop it up to have a reality all its own: at fifty one I say it isn't so. A family's a thing should have arms big enough to allow the beloved oddball a little slack then thank her authenticity, remembering when she made them laugh or made them think that maybe all the prophets aren't dead; were merely sleeping. No, No, I Cannot Go There What happens is a drizzle of words becomes a deluge, then a cataract, a paroxysm of jism and ants and god knows what all fits in there. My mind gives up, waves hankey after white hankey, hoping the next one isn't full of all those shards the shards, the yard sale, wholesale throwing it into the pot of never commiting to one simple thought at a time -which is an eloquence quite lost on you- a self-proclaimed admirer of Ms. Dickinson, the queen of short and sweet. The worst is, there's an army of asterisked imitators after you- a ribbon of unfortunate acolytes, dancing on the rim of a hill already claimed by Bergman ..........but so much better. badly greek blow the horn, bang the gong, echo out the hollow valleys, where o where has my sweet heart gone the one who lifted me up up, away i will do a shadow play of longing, no a re play of a yester day, i'll bump it up i'll grind it out, i'll dare to be thought a fool for the return of my most wildly and prolif ic natif, (don't let him fade away; he's like the mother of our sourdough bread)- I'm asking only that my courtiers do the singing, (in my name of course) my name my name my...... name above all else Chorus: . Yeah, I saw it. Stupid. Nothin new, ............... but click- and presto: you're ............... alive ............... again. ............... Big deal. The stupid, frickin ................tube has reruns. like a tail of tin cans, it will follow you (for tasha) There's an ambitious breed of bitch dog, who plants her bones instead of freeing them from honest carcass like the rest of the ravening pack. She'll dig where she has planted them so she can claim the good ones -only hides the big ones known as quite a feast before, and will make those out there, sniffing for bone, sit up and howl. What the bitch don't know is, one dawg told another one and another one, who said he saw that bone in someone else's yard, in amongst trees--weren't no new find, it was a dinosaur bone, easily recognized: there's only one Tyranno saurus. No one round these parts has that kind of stature but him, so how could anybody think her silly 'puppy run' would have a thing like that just lying around. Everyone knows she called up Dial-A-Bone arranged for a delivery so she'd seem to be digging ditches with the other bitches, but when she finally bagged it there was a trail from where she dragged it; didn't break the rules entirely, but she showed the other dogs how far she'd stretch to fetch the thing she wanted. Whether she knows it or not, that stunt will follow her. The other runts all hate a bitch without a stitch of principle. Tribal There are days when they're all banging on the walls: Help me, see me, where is every body?--frantic, kicking out like babies wanting suckle. Freckles aligned, they think their freckles connected one to one, must be potential language, dot to dot depiction like a poetic constellation that spells certainly something wonderful. Please enter: make some sense of it. Grab a pencil; start to trace it. Tell them what it is they're saying -why it's so important that they clamor, bang bones off walls, and off of one another. Join their jungle art: be part of it... to understand his nature and christ said in revelations 3:15, if ye be neither hot nor cold i will vomit thee out of my mouth he said a lot of things, but I have to agree, that one was a mouthful forgive me lord my trespasses, like lying, cussing, hurting those who never deserved the hit, but if I sit smack in the middle like those who dare not move to right or left- then kiss me with your stomach acid, sour burp me out of there with all the bleating mealy mouths, their bridges safe behind their lives unburned Salty Notes Hyena howls, bowls of eyeballs bobbing for the Lookatme! Lookatme! game. Egotism so rampant there is not a name for it yet, but you can bet there'll be some contest for the christening. Empty flap of unstoppable jaws, clapclap clapclap, that's all you're gonna get unless it's the boot or rollin rollin; cutesy, simpleton signs like hobo art followed from board to board to loveme loveme. Look! how simply adorable I am! but far away on a different planet scarier things are happening in Sand among a race of beings kept from drifting off only by the mundane. Things like marriage bills fidelity- the nagging, niggling horrid stuff that even these escapists know. When reality brings on vertigo well hey- there's always Mexico or I daho or Californina dreamin or the Orange State of mind it's always a place but never a who cause nobody's home but us tokers. Come in; bray with us. Hating Rosie Pudgy-faced moonpie, mouth about a fifth of the size it should be- when did you become the Queen of Lesbia? Wasn't too long ago those wraps were pulled down pretty tight over how you like your hairpie, mistress moonface, little miss play-the-game when it pays to not be sitting face you disgrace to honest dykedom. Yeah, you worked and whored the system, that's o.k. the system sucks, but don't pretend you didn't. Can't be both America's sweetheart and its chubby, snapping Butch Bitch, railing against the kind who made you rich. Just choose an extreme and stay there. Melissa Etheridge is Popessa of the Lickers any day. That slot is filled; that girl has paid her dues. What's one more lesbian, after all, it really doesn't matter, but what gets to me is a pugfaced opportunist. On To Page 9 .............. Return To Contents This site sponsered by 
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