Originally posted November 17th, 2013
passing through our galaxy
on and around and maybe inside
the same sacred molecules breathed by
Gandhi. And Jimi.
Everyone. All breathing the same breath, born of the same ecstatic release.
They tell you where to gaze
and why to eat
and what to care
and who to how the when. But lonely is the day, my friend,
that comes not to a proper end;
trickling, instead, to the edges, like a stain, a creeper. Wine trapped in paper.
A celebrant. If you will
just follow me, let me lead you to the place or places you’re not sure enough to know.
So, repeat after she, delete past her knee, cancel the porkpies and make some fresh ghee.
You can, you know. It has been permitted and authorized by . . . → Read More: Poem: Connecting to the Higher Vibe
Originally posted October 20th, 2013
of shamelessness. Jerry Brown is not embarrassed to be the Prison Industry’s boy in Sacramento, and so
we should not be embarrassed to have elected him to lead us and protect us
from druggies, who Brown prefers to leave behind bars, the better to improve the bottom line
of his patrons in the Incarceration Business.
We learned this week that slavery still flourishes in India. The old-fashioned kind
of slavery, in which children are sold like cattle, sacred cows who labor with opposable thumbs. This kind of thing
happens, you know, so we should not be embarrassed to organize our life around acquiring and consuming
goods and services
brought to us by nicely remunerated slave drivers.
. . . → Read More: Poem: News from the Home Front
Originally posted September 8th, 2013
You’re losing private battles between foes called Dark and Light.
A poker face is good for gambling, good for fooling foes,
but tabula rasa is a start for art, not how friendship grows.
Unpinch the nose, remove the sneer, put pleasure where there’s pain,
and see how easy life becomes when there is no strain,
no stress, no angst, no effort to be made
to be the best, to win the race, to earn the highest grade.
Turning frowns upside down seems childish at best.
So, stern and somber grown-ups may try a simple test:
When next you feel the urge to shroud your soul with inexpressive guile
try, instead, to give a grateful world your empathetic smile.
Originally posted June 23rd, 2013
a white lady in Florida.
The former NFL star best known for a peculiar and unknowable fetish
with his own number
had slapped his attorney on the ass
in court,
just as he had slapped countless male asses before
in end zones and sideline huddles.
You don’t do that kind of thing in Broward County,
especially if you’re a nigger boy with too much swagger and sex appeal and loads of cool
like you never had to try to be admired, ever, because it just happened naturally,
like a Brady spiral. It happened effortlessly
whether or not you had hair or a diamond stud earring gleaming a constant reminder
to white ladies
that nothing can take the shine off of this here Negro, the one that got 90 days in jail
. . . → Read More: Poem: Ochocinco
Originally posted April 21st, 2013
Born to the manor these two fine brothers,
Whose servants sheltered them from feeling sad,
Or foolishly acting too kindly to others.
Natural twins from the start, they twinned all through life,
The Harvard® and clerkships and China Bank™.
Jason got married; George needed a wife
To double the wedding and stay equal in rank.
Being a Barclay is grand, oh so grand!
Being a Barclay is grand, oh so grand!
Being a Barclay – well, you can’t understand.
Their lust subject to polite conjecture:
Jetting to Spain, enjoying a slut host,
Eager to hear the twins’ austerity lectures?
With work and connections they hatched a large fortune
To add to the one they already had.
More loot . . . → Read More: The Ballad of the Barclay Boys
Originally posted June 18th, 2012
when I shower, give me comfort? I suppose it does. The sequence is the sacrament. Starting with
the shaving cream (the soap in a can that comes out foamy, not creamy in any way except linguistically), left to soak
in the bristly beard while other duties are attended to by the Chief Hygenic Officer, whose responsibilities include
all the orifices, crevasses, hidden places, and vast plains of epidermal surface area, all in need
of soap.
Then the hair, if necessary, which is never, but we find reasons to do the unecessary out of the bath, so in it we can’t quibble
when some improving ablution, contained in one of the plastic bottles lined up on floor, like armaments awaiting dark uses, silently convnces us that
a liberal application of whatever melange of chemicals contained therein will
make . . . → Read More: Poem: Comfort
Originally posted November 6th, 2011
The one you supposedly wrote with every choice you made
Good and Bad
And all the others in between, somewhere on the scale, a shade of grey seen in Whistler,
Who studided these things.
Tell your story. Tell your stories.
Keep repeating it. Don’t be scared to repeat your story. Repeat your stories.
Cling to the woman (or women) who loved you
Once. When you were more lovable than you are now,
Old, irrelevant, increasingly creepy. You’re a character in your story.
No longer the hero, but perhaps not a villain, either. Maybe you are what you feared:
Indistinguishable from a billion others, except for your face and maybe your smell,
the stench that defines your putresence from the fellow in Africa whom
You’ll never meet.
The lady in Bosnia who digs potatoes.
. . . → Read More: Poem: When Nothing Else Seems to Matter
Originally posted August 7th, 2011
The loneliness of the orchid.
The stillness of the table. The gentle droop, a swan’s neck, a dancer’s bow to the enveloping sound of love.
Cursed with wakefulness, the flowers cannot sleep. The talking goes on and then some more, shuffling the proper order of things. Renovating the piquant plan that our unseen hand once imagined in a fever fit. Ceaselessly yearning for light and the enveloping sound of love.
We can’t know her any more than ourselves. She’s white and frail and open, vulnerable to cold and cruelty. Her language is a mystery.
We can feel her. She is lonely.
You had no sister, only promises. And when the end came, messy and unhappy and not at all . . . → Read More: Poem: The Loneliness of the Orchid
Originally posted June 20th, 2010
That’s where you’ll find the love
and the care that’s too big to have a word.
Altogether different from Mom’s, it feels at first more settled,
less frantic.
But when you live with it long enough and if you’re charitable, you’ll discover that
Dad will never stop sheilding you from anything that smells of harm, real
or imagined.
Originally posted December 20th, 2009
I’lll hold your hand.
We’re on a journey, side by side. You be the tourist,
I’ll be your guide.
We won’t stop til we get where we’re meant to be goin’. So long as the love and the music is flowin’. Free.
See! Epiphanies in the great outdoors. Kaleidoscopic
matadors.
Igurots and Eskimos. Papaya frogs
with eleven toes.
Let’s take a trip to our secret place. You pack a lunch
and I’ll say grace.
We’ll dine on dreams and private jokes. On harebrained schemes
and organic smokes.
Let’s take a trip in our birthday suits. Energized by
forbidden fruits.
No destination, no Guam or Rome. Our grand adventure
leads to home.
We won’t stop til we get where we’re meant to be goin’. So long as the love and the music is flowin’.
Our . . . → Read More: Poem: Let’s Take a Trip
Thought Of The Week Mr. Konik's current Thought. The Slow Motion Holocaust Orginally posted on November 24, 2013
Identification, ostracism, confiscation, concentration, and annihilation.
Those are the key steps in all genocides. We haven’t yet accomplished the final solution, the annihilation part, but we’ve done a brilliant job of the first four steps in our slow-motion holocaust against the American Underclass, the perpetually poor lowest ten percent of our society. The clever part, the really insidious part, is that while perpetrating our crime we’ve avoided the international community’s approbation. Indeed, we’ve earned begrudging praise for…
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Recent Thoughts
Poem: Connecting to the Higher Vibe Look inward, into the light at your center, the light that came from Saturn
passing through our galaxy
on and around and maybe inside
the same sacred molecules breathed by
Gandhi. And Jimi.
Everyone. All breathing the same breath, born of the same ecstatic release.
They tell you where to…
To Protect and to Serve and to Text Terminal 3 at LAX is where we go when booked on Alaska Airlines. We’re familiar with the terminal’s passenger screening area, where, last week, an angry white male drew a gun and began shooting TSA agents, killing one, wounding many others, and sending hundreds of terrified bystanders running for safety…
Dirty Thoughts We’ve learned from experience, from having a surfeit of dirty thoughts. Voluntarily removing more than 3,000 pieces of litter from Hollywood’s Runyon Canyon (and the streets around it), has taught us several abiding lessons that the City of Los Angeles should consider in the ongoing battle against trash blight.
+ Getting folks…
Money Well Spent California’s overseers of worker’s compensation awards have determined that Lt. John Pike, the University of California cop who pepper-sprayed non-violent student protesters as they sat peaceably on the ground, is entitled to $38,000 from state taxpayers in light of the actual pain and acute stress suffered as a result of the…
Poem: News from the Home Front We learned this week that being the Governor of California requires extraordinary quotients
of shamelessness. Jerry Brown is not embarrassed to be the Prison Industry’s boy in Sacramento, and so
we should not be embarrassed to have elected him to lead us and protect us
from druggies, who Brown prefers…
New Discoveries Stuff we think is hip. Laurence Hobgood’s “Christmas” Orginally posted on December 03, 2013
We’re on the record: the world needs another Christmas music collection about as much as another porno clip. We’ve got plenty. What more needs to be added, what else can be said on the subject of Christmas songs that hasn’t already been said wonderfully well by hundreds — thousands? — of others? Pianist-arranger-composer Laurence Hobgood, [...]
