Thursday, March 8, 2012


Workshops abound with pathetic denizens, long burned out by early splendor, professing life, milked nudged, Iowan slain ducks that may or may not yet the prize, believing their own wash is still on the line.  The light industry of yesteryear for mediocrity to foolishness, because the little factories and stores, the restaurants along the highway that took in poets for short-term salad making and some flips on the grill, where the grits and teeth to voice have faded to industrial mendacity.  The poet, the book itself a produce not iconography, now a poem tossed in the stream in life, or simply a voice of one’s own.

The poets of Blue Collar review, most of whom have gotten their hands dirty and their feet wet say “life” or “work”, offer a rhythmic reminder, a jolt poked by street smarts, zipped and unbuttoned, gleaned with a language, a strike.

 Thus no one speaks the truth.  “Write better poems.” Especially the academic snoot factory riding the chariot around the Emperor’s feet.  Clear voices sublime & entertaining; certainly the hint of no spilling of existential dressing they pass as poetry.

 This is a hard game for the dreamer, the thoughtful poet who cracks at the night in rap, jack, hottypoo idol worship jazz or neo-realistic blathering, whack doo bonk sigh linguistic soliloquy.

Even the Beats have a museum at Broadway in San Francisco.  No need to hit the road to envision the “Beat” life complete with chairs and busts of old hums and street bop.  Soon one might expect the poets, stuffed on wheels and rolled to the street complete with built-in IPods.  Why you can tune right in like the rest of the passive necrophilics hovering in the poetic shadows.

 Sometimes back when, players ario Chalmers and Michael Beasley received $20,000 and $50,000 fines respectively for harboring “improper guests,” during Rookie Transition Program.  One can see the long faces, the eyelids drop in sorrow, the humble 19 year old millionaire awash in grief.  What’s the problem?  Learned behavior, immaturity?  Will they ever learn?

 Folks, it runs right up the block to the Washington School of Bait and Snatch, except those folks don’t pay.  No fines.  No jail time.  Whoever was in the room got theirs.  They own the bank.

Today, passing the buck is a euphemism for stick ‘em up, we want more.  If you don’t like the whore in the bedroom help us buy a new bed, and we’ll introduce you to the pimp now in the office.

 This is serious.  This is, a, a, this is Code Orange.  Could it be Code Red?   You remember Red who used to work in the White House before the bombs, before the….no no that Red.  Was it Red?  No it’s the terrorist and we have to same Democracy.  It’s the terrorists in the bedroom.  No it’s Goldman’s what’s his name, and the AGO, not the ARO.  AIG that’s it.  They made soap, don’t they (or soap opera)?  Or basketballs, or CASH.

America needs cash right now, which you idiots out there have been paying for while the real soap (cash) flies the way to Iraq and Afghanistan.

 Uncle Sam.  Bend over.  We love you.  We really do.  We all agree.  You agree, I’m sure that something must be done and NOW.  Nothing to debate we’re in this together.  We’re sorry.  You can see that.  We don’t blame you at all.  Things will get better.  Hurry up America.

Here is the ball.   Fake, dribble, pass it off and cut to the hoop.  Ah, yes catch us if you can.  We need to train all you Middle American rookies returning to the new game come November, or the old game.


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