Tuesday, March 12, 2013

Puppet Shows Trailer!

Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, children of all ages - the trailer for my hilarious collection of short stories, so absurd people are scratching their heads with it, Puppet Shows!








Anyway, I was thinking of how underground I am, and that not even my Facebook friends or Twitter followers (with a half dozen of so exceptions in the former, maybe two in the latter) pay just the slightest attention to the magic that is Puppet Shows. I say "Please share," they say, "Fuck you!" I say, "Please retweet," they say, "Suck it!" Never mind that they'll probably enjoy Puppet Shows, laugh a lot, and maybe help my children eat something other than dirt sandwiches for a couple of nights. They don't want to be bothered. (Don't worry. They surely won't read this either.) If it isn't a photo of a cat or baby or something some schmuck ate for dinner, it isn't important.

Enough venting. I was reminded of the very last poem of my second wonderful collection Long Blue Boomerang, which was titled "Underground."




Underground

I want to be undergrounder than underground,
not just digital or draped in velvet,
but cloven-hoofed with fetus hands,
and worms popping from my
empty eye sockets shouting,
“Eat our shit, Charles Bukkake!”

I want to dig to China
and recite poetry in pictures,
write haiku in my own feces,
and sing dirty limericks
nude while tied to a subway track

I want to take Sylvia Plath
from behind while she’s
face first in the oven,
dead like Doo-wop

I want my sestinas and cinquains
to scrape the top of a coffin,
and the ashes of my
pantoums and villanelles
to be spread across hell

I want to be an ostrich,
a ghost, a monster
with swords and guns
to prove the pen is not mightier.

I want to be underground,
dead like poetry,
dead like Stephen Crane,
dead like Bob Crane,
or at least endangered,
like the whooping kind
of crane that once flew
like words do.
 

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