Monday, October 29, 2018

A Lost Story: Knock Down That Tree


The schizo stood and shook my hand in a forest. “Years ago,” he said, “when you lived a lifetime beyond sun and moon in a basement, or maybe Africa -- one day you promised, when you had become a crone, one who could only hobble, totter, drabble, dribble and leak, you promised to return from The Great Beyond. And you did. You are here. You told the congregation listening to your poetry and stories that you would take schizos into a forest and shout at them with a noble voice: ‘Nazis, Russians and friends. You were my neighbours and chose to murder my soul.’ You lived many lifetimes and yet you have returned. You have returned from The Great Beyond. You have returned with your broken, desperate heart. And you have lived beyond time.” And then the schizo finished speaking and slowly sat down to rest.

“I have returned to talk to you and to the dead, also,” I said. “To tell you that I have lived. I have lived to write many blogs in The Great Beyond. We mourn and we remember a past precedence. Those buried in the soil beneath these living trees. We live in the name of schizophrenia, mental illness and addiction. And we remember the names of unborn children. We take you as the example and then elevate you above the forest, because without you there cannot be a future.” I handed him some cold fast-food.

I turned around and then I turned on the ghetto-blaster. The rich music sounded magnificent. And then he sat more comfortably and took a bite of the Big Mac and tore a piece off the bun of the burger. “But I’m imagining that I’ll live beyond the end of a new tomorrow,” he said, “where there are no schizos.” He finished the end piece of the burger and chomped vigorously on the bun. Drool began to fall from his lip.

“Ronald McDonald is a clown and schizophrenia is an illness,” I said. “And you are as branded as McDonald’s and unless you can split that tree…” I pointed at the tree behind him. "There's no other way you can rid yourself from the clown within. To split means you must cut down the tree from the tree of loneliness and contempt.

He turned his head. “No,” he said, “I do not wish to split wood.”

“Then you would do well to hide from the world,” I said.

A Poem Without An End

Inside a haunted forest,
bruised lonely trees.
Inside a beaten tree
is battered wood.
Inside tree-parts
is a heart,
scared of an axe
beating faster
out of control
with fear
and me
cutting down
the tree,
ripping out
the roots.
Forever.

Richard Tattoni

Wednesday, February 1, 2017

Obituary For Donald J. Trump


"And the nations were angry, and thy wrath is come, and the time of the dead, that they should be judged, and that thou shouldest give reward unto thy servants the prophets, and to the saints, and them that fear thy name, small and great; and shouldest destroy them which destroy the earth." -- Revelation 11:18           

The Secretary-General of the UN is a noble person of moral standing and good ethics. But news about climate change burns a page of madness on the cover of the last available newspaper, as ashes for mankind. (Don’t mistake this for Bi-Polar Blues or God Kill The President.)

The marching band marches with their heads cut off.

Bill Clinton has difficulty getting it up with Viagra.

Internet hacking creates a job market for toddlers.

“Here lies a dead president,” the killer said, before blowing his brains out. I am truly sorry about writing a premature obituary for Donald J. Trump. What you stand for is dead. There is no brotherhood of ISIS from the needle in a haystack or flies to the wildebeest or skinheads to Nazism or godfathers to the horse’s head. The intended result of Trump defeating the woman, Ms. Clinton, occurred in the last American presidential race. Nazism is better for it. Trumpism is a crude form of American fascism, but Canadians are not better or worse for it, and we do not care. Canadian boys are buying Russian-made laptops, dying in the face of retarded politics after losing a pay check to on-line dating websites run by elderly Ukrainian women sending selfies of a czarina on the toilet in a melted igloo of the Northwest Territories in the money-grubbing north.

Excuse me. Excuse me, but there are many Canadian presidents (of companies including a President’s Choice empire). NAFTA might loan a chef’s hat to fit over a better machine-made rug before tweeting pics of another fake Don to inspire hiring and firing at the Food Network. The Don is alive in well in Canada, but it has got nothing to do with Donald Trump and we are damn busy studying The Godfather trilogy, Goodfellas, Donnie Brasco and The Sopranos.

President Trump can go straight to corporate hell, as the rich tax fraud he is, and always will be; and I would not know the difference, and I could care less. And what if President Trump is reading his death and I am writing this for him? What would I write for a delusional mind? I would go to Trump Tower and Skype him ways to improve the dictatorship and absolute rule.

Do you call yourself a true Republican? Shame on you after opposing Richard Nixon and dodging the Vietnam War. Do you really control the city states, inner cities and campuses across your vast empire? And why do I waste free time? There is no better justice than killing you on paper (or the screen of a computer will do). You unapologetic bastard-ass Republican mule. Actually, Ivanka looks pretty hot dressed in all-black. If there is anything I can do to dig a hole, great enough for your mountainous rug, please let me know, because I would work on it in heartbeat. But it’s not over ‘til the Rosie sings. 

There are walls to be built, speeches to make great and fake news to give to your people. Party in the glorious paradise of hell that you have built, and then tell them that the apprentice sent you. There is work to do, conspiracies to build around a wall, and your ego to grow impossibly bigger. And you are not actually Donald Trump. It is your fake alias name. A stage name to make yourself into the president ass-clown of a nation. Chinese talk shows are waiting.

Please remember me when you are on your knees begging to Satan and asking to apologize, begging for mercy, as your first and last act of forgiveness in the Chinese ghettos of morbid hell. There is a special kind of hell for you. Only the good presidents were fondly remembered with untalented speeches before a greater wall, greater fake rug and greater dreams to deport your soul to a black hole in space. It’s aliens thinking huger. Trumpism ruined the common dream, and dreamers are pissing bigger puddles in the back alleys of streets (soon to be named after Scott Baio). Make drugs great again, before escaping into Trump Tower and hiding from the embarrassment and shame after selling out America. You shall be missed. There but for the grace of God, goes Donald J. Trump.

Sunday, January 1, 2017

A Day In The Life Of An Earthworm


What’s punk without the soul of grunge and the spirit of funk? A heavier world includes blues-inspired grunge metal as the perfect sound for earth and dirt and worms. Nothing in the world could stop me from worming my way in. Flashback to a West Coast mid-summer’s night in 1994 after Kurt Cobain’s stupid death.

He was fondly remembered. I wrote him poems as a die-hard fan and I liked his music. I saw a few of his first gigs when I visited my aunt and uncle in Seattle. Across the street played my childhood idol slowly losing atoms to chaos amidst the indifferent mountains and hardcore punk rivals. Piece by piece he’d give his soul. Piece by piece I’d join him. And then I went back one last time. To say that I wasn’t part of the whole problem was like not believing Green Eggs and Ham and Fried Green Tomatoes could be made into cool rhythm and blues.

One memorable night in Seattle, I took a page out of the post-grunge post-death of Kurt Cobain. Tilting my head back, the glass of scotch had given me a huge buzz, slowly focusing my eyes at the vaulted ceiling, posters of The Doors and Black Sabbath, but Kurt Cobain was to-die-for. Freely visiting from Burlington, Ontario, Canada and I'd made it inside a rich penthouse in Seattle, Washington to join in on a party dedicated to Kurt’s sick memory. Courtney Love walked over to me and the black leather couch, beside the rustic bar area. She was pale. She wore a long black dress with gold beads draping down from her neck. I'd never forget her don’t-fuck-with-me attitude and sexy, bitchy, out-of-this-world, whore-like attraction almost as though she'd just come off the set of Casting Couch.

“Never-mind the suicide note,” she said.
            
“What?” I asked. I actually never saw the note.
         
“Kurt really wanted to go to Starbucks with you.” There was a tear in her eye.
            
“What? How do you know this?” I asked.
            
“I talked to him on the phone before he got stoned and took his life.”
            
“Seriously?”
            
“Kurt read Earthworms Squirming On A Fishhook and he liked it.”
            
“Thanks,” I said, “I wrote the poem after getting high on a fishing trip.”
            
“A lot of good that did,” she said sarcastically. “What difference does it make?”
            
“Earthworms breathe through the skin and they can’t stay outside in the light for more than hour or they will die. But they don’t feel pain.”
            
“Kurt was a worm,” she said.
            
“I know,” I said and sighed.        
            
“He needed help.”
            
“I’m sorry.” Holy shit, I thought to myself how suddenly I’d become a part of the whole fucking problem. I stared at her sad eyes and her freshly powdered nose.

Hole's troubled star singer turned away. Her bleached clothes, dyed-purple hair and watery eyes made me think maybe poets were Brothers In Arms and maybe I’d listened to enough Suicidal Tendencies mixed with a twinge of Nirvana. They opened the door to me, so I could join the party and I was grateful. My eyes were wide open watching everyone with drinks in their hands and stoned frowns like the world had ended. Sir Paul McCartney stood in a lonely corner.

Courtney rudely ended the conversation and went to the bathroom. Background music of The Doors whisked her away into another room where she closed the bathroom door. Roadhouse Blues got louder and louder.

The more I got drunk, the more I thought (and believed) how I was separated at birth with Kurt and owed him all apologies for not sitting down to talk over Zen Green Tea and a good old-fashioned orgy of poetry.

I shook my head (almost like I was listening to AC/DC) and just thought wow the whole night.

Thursday, December 1, 2016

Have Yourself A Very Chaucerian Christmas

Image Courtesy Of Pixabay
A Very Brady Christmas is cool and learning a Brady has died really gets you into the holiday spirit. But I just believe today’s BS news spreads differently (whether it gets under your skin or not, everyone is on Facebook or Twitter or Jeopardy). Everyone is following Chaucer Doth Tweet @LeVostreGC or more importantly your friend becoming famous right in front of your biased eyes.

My studying of poetry evolved over the years. I went from olde Shakespeare to Kerouac and everything in between. I wish I could get paid to edit Mexico City Blues. It started in high school, the curriculum was saturated with Shakespeare and it enriched my life, but that’s just the beginning. Unfortunately, I'd keep reading the poison after high school and the last Shakespeare book I read was Twelfth Night, a romantic comedy. It’s dead winter and I’m scum for just thinking about a Midsummer Night’s Dream to the point where I’m going to spew this for what it’s worth:

Lovers and madmen have such seething brains,
Such shaping fantasies, that apprehend
More than cool reason ever comprehends.
The lunatic, the lover and the poet
Are of imagination all compact:
One sees more devils than vast hell can hold,
That is, the madman: the lover, all as frantic,
Sees Helen's beauty in a brow of Egypt:
The poet's eye, in fine frenzy rolling,
Doth glance from heaven to earth, from earth to heaven;
And as imagination bodies forth
The forms of things unknown, the poet's pen
Turns them to shapes and gives to airy nothing
A local habitation and a name.

Mohawk College, Indian Summer, Indian Fall, Indian Winter then reading the Miller’s Tale and portions of the Canterbury Tales and Tennyson’s Idylls of the Kings and that’s my new adult life in a nutshell. My favourite Tennyson poem is the Lady of Shalott which is narrative verse. I also like a lot of Robert Frost’s reflections and traditional verse from Donne to Keats to Poe. Lately, I’ve been reading more free verse. I’m in the middle of Jack’s Mexico City Blues. I’m done reading Margaret Atwood’s The Door and also another Canadian Alison Pick’s The Dream World. I also got back into to Flowers For Hitler after learning about Leonard Cohen passing away. My favourite Cohen song is Closing Time. What’s my favourite Christmas radio show from Slaughterhouse-Tuesday, aka The Death Of Terrestrial Radio, aka Lionheart Leaks? I’m leaking this out for what it’s worth (despite its inappropriateness).


Why are stores not adapting or why is media not evolving to modern times? Because they’re closing the doors, closing shop, they don’t have time to fight the Industrial Revolution of this century. The Middle Ages, a time of political turmoil, unstable economies and significant social changes, didn’t see Indians or cold weather in Canada, so what the fuck did Chaucer actually know?

Busy with his duties, Chaucer had little time to devote to writing poetry, he'd write poetry in his spare time, and instead Chaucer spent most of his time eating and drinking. He would feast on the earliest known hot dog to man and make time for lasagna, breaded pork chops and Caesar salad in no particular order. Simply attempt writing Chaucerian stanzas or rhyme royal and bring back #ThirstyThursday because prohibition hasn’t started again (yet).

Worst 11 Modern Drinks From The Middle Ages

1. Honey Wine
2. Barley Wine
3. Beowulf Vodka
4. Canterbury Whiskey
5. Geoffrey Chaucer Dark Ale
6. Geoffrey Chaucer Mild Ale
7. Geoffrey Chaucer Amber Ale
8. Geoffrey Chaucer Exotic Lime Ale
9. Geoffrey Chaucer Blonde Ale
10. Geoffrey Chaucer India Pale Ale
11. Geoffrey Chaucer Olde Ale

Oh, “The Father of English literature” spent a lot of time writing, but doubtful it had anything to do with blogging daily writing tips. Literature is mostly the same today. Except in modern times, writers are more skilled at writing better beer names. My #AuthorLife is more balanced and I write poetry, prose and blogs, such as December Is Going To Be Heavy and then finish it all off with devilled eggs and Dinosaur cookies. A Midsummer Night’s Dream in winter?

Reading Miniature MidSummer Night's Dream

Tuesday, November 1, 2016

Skedaddles' Magic Carpet Ride


It was pure horseshit. But sometimes, you don't want to hear it straight from the horse's mouth. Staring out the small window in the alcove adjacent to the tiny kitchen, broken, unfocused thoughts scrambled through my mind. They came to Burlington looking for Vermont and fucking found Canada instead. They came in long limousines and in small sports cars and in over-sized SUVs. Many of them were tanned and wore cool sunglasses, never removing them and showing their eyes. Their dark skin was covered in suits and shades, and funny smiles and stupid scowls. They came in all sizes and shapes, all ages and creeds. They were larger-than-life rock stars wanting more. It was never enough for them.

My distorted image of the music industry quickly raced in and out of my mind, and then everything stopped. I stood still; holding it in, piss-mad and needing to take a mean leak. I needed to scurry down the small flight of stairs to the small bathroom. Skedaddles was my cat. I glanced at him or her (actually unsure the gender of the cat). Surrounded by the dull, unpainted walls, turning away from the window, cat bowl and garbage bin, I raced out into the hall and down the stairs and went to the toilet. Relief. Everything was good, while I raged at the ugly reflection of myself in the toilet bowl, before letting it all out and pissing out the anger.

When I made my way to the living room, the fucking friendly cat followed me and crawled into its cat box in the corner of the dark room. I had turned off the annoying light. I walked over to turn the music on and saw a black bug on the top shelf. I admired the big black bug with its legs crawling down the shelf. The bug made me happy. I would stare at the ugly bug before turning away and grabbing the remote control from between couch cushions.

My HDTV was black. I never turned it on. My Bose stereo was where I replaced life with the sound of music. It got loud then louder, but what was really cool was the high frequency sound. Skeddadles! The cat was trying to get closer. Maybe he/she wanted to dance. I was all alone. Maybe he/she wanted me to talk. I was playing Magic Carpet Ride and it was nodding at me and looking like it was time to get into a happy groove. These were happy times, I thought.

“Did you  know Steppenwolf released the earliest heavy metal known to man?”

There was nothing, but the sound of music, as the cat stared into my dull eyes. I still couldn’t tell if it wanted to dance or listen to my stupid questions, or maybe not answer, and just look dumb. It turned slightly and looked up at the fluorescent light in the kitchen. 

“Did you know Dark Side Of The Moon was released years before I was born?”

To this, the furry feline looked shocked and moved closer to the power bar. What did it want to do? Did it want to turn off Magic Carpet Ride? Or did he/she want to hear more did you knows almost like I was preaching Nightly News to it and sounding like NBC, or maybe I was lost on the Star Wars Death Star? I was like a void station of useless information. With a bat-face, I watched the cat fumbling through wires with its paws on the verge of electrocution. Acting fast, I wanted the pussycat to listen to me and understand it was time to dance or leave.

“I’ll throw REM’s Man On The Moon on, if you dance for me.” I winked at it.

The cat stared at me like it was confused or scared. I wanted to pull out a machine gun from my closet and point the gun at it, just to force it to answer the questions and dance like a good pussy. It stared at me more intensely with wide eyes filled with fright. 

“I’ll tell you the best science fiction ever told to man, if you just dance for me.” I smiled and cranked Magic Carpet Ride louder. I was in a mighty fantastic mood, but the pussycat was indifferent. Nodding and then turning away, and then turning towards me again, he/she moved closer, but didn’t dance. Skedaddling off the carpet, it went back to its cat box, and buried its head and went to sleep. It didn’t move and almost looked dead. I never played Magic Carpet Ride again. Ever. But I would take some of the credit.

That’s when I realized boring, dependable guys can sing a cat to sleep.

But it never listened.


Saturday, October 15, 2016

I Want To Be Your Halloween Man-Witch



Boo! Did I scare you? Flying kites multiplying and taking over the dark sky is not terrifying. But be afraid, I write dark fiction not horror. Stephen King got his big break from writing horror. I won’t be getting a big break from The Great Beyond and writing dead, but Pen Name Publishing is releasing Beyond The Blue Kite. My debut novel is scheduled to be released around September 2017.

If I had a broom, adjusting the broom between my legs, I'd fly away as your man-witch from hell. My destination would be Oz or Wonderland or maybe the shadows of heaven. It would make the perfect story and it would become crystal clear that some of the best witches are men or women or transvestites. A love affair between me and the dark side of fiction -- it's not that I want to fly into Oz and fall on another witch after she takes a liking to my storytelling. I'm sitting here, beyond acid flashbacks or nervous breakdowns, thinking more about talking truth on writing dialogue or the discipline of writing daily with French Press Bookworks Author Roundtable.

I was going to write about witches and ghosts and goblins, but then I didn’t.

I was going to write about fantastic fantasy, but then I didn’t.

I was going to write about mystery, but I’m already writing it.


Organization is the key to unlocking the mystery on how to write more. Find a way to organize your writing, then write more, one step at a time. The discipline of writing daily comes from deep within the pure or impure soul. It usually starts slow or fast, but it has to start somewhere. Six pages into Chapter 10 of Lionheart Leaks, but then I stop and hit a wall. Twitter takes over. I’m out of control and I’m tweeting like a mental patient with WiFi privileges. I’m starting to get more ideas from the craziness, and imagination is spewing from every time of the day. What if Lionheart Leaks alternative title is The Death Of Terrestrial Radio (in endless parts). What is Terrestrial radio? In broadcasting, it’s any electronic devices designed to receive, demodulate, and amplify radio signals from sound stations. It only gets harder.

WIFE: Stephen King schedules time to write every day and writes six pages a day. You need to do write daily as a discipline.

ME: I hate Stephen King.

WIFE: Just write.

ME: OK.


Drink good. A great big blast from the past, feverishly writing pages of poetry and I’m not sleeping on the couch in front of the laptop, but I’m writing, drinking and sleeping before writing and drinking more. I rely on the ageless life tip of staying hydrated as the best writing tip and advice. Something like this:

NORTH OF NAVAJO

Speaking English
on Indian Lake Beach
sounds foreign
and loud.

Stripping naked
misunderstood --
on a dark beach
under the moon,
hearing heavy metal
sound fluent and rich.

NORTHEAST OF NAVAJO

Heavy metal is made here,
where we’re under a rock
from a cave
somewhere,
but nowhere I can reveal.
I can only make you hear.

Put a blanket on my bed
and drape it over my head.
If you don’t know what I’ve said,
It’s because I’m speaking a dialect of Navajo.

King of the foreign tongue
lost in translation
from illusions
of delusions
of darkness.

MADNESS (11th Chorus)

Madness deepens and overwhelms
a deeper desire of hate.
Only profound sadness
and inner voices
screams words
nobody hears.

Headaches fill the dark hours
raging only in my mind.
You can’t smell my onion-stained breath,
since not speaking
or shouting a word.

I try to resist madness,
only to hear nothing --
beyond belief
to cry
from sadness.
Hail
a tissue from my face
wiping tears,
wiping fear.
I want to write 
to the mighty
mouse.


Sunday, October 2, 2016

Where The Hell Do We Go When We Die?


Nazi Germany? Or St. Petersburg, Russia? Or Syberia? Probably not. We’ll go somewhere where there's no pain. It’s somewhere greater than The Great Beyond. There’ll be truth. Trust me. And real fiction from wonderful worlds of make-believe bringing us new characters and imagination.

His name is really Peter Cannonball and he died performing a cannonball onto cement. We regret to inform you that poor Peter missed the pool. Let’s say Peter wasn’t Christian and practiced Atheism with his loving family. Does Peter still go to Heaven or Purgatory or Hell?

Probably Heaven not Purgatory nor Hell and the after-world is a mystery. Jesus Christ kinda freaks me out, because he wanted to die (maybe he believed in suicide). Or Jesus God, I believe in it all.

I don’t want to be experiencing Acid Flashback No. 67 in the end. I don’t want the coroner to report bad make-up causing my creepy inevitable death. I don’t want to be dressed in a clown costume. I don't want my final meal to be a plate of the freshest mushrooms from the grocery store. Suddenly I'm imagining myself choking on the biggest, juiciest mushroom.


Shrooms? Aliens? Spaceships? Is that a fucking UFO? I’m coughing badly, sick from this blog and I can hear strange noises coming from outside. I’m looking away from the computer screen and out the window, and now up into the sky. No, it's the giant fucking Moon. And it’s getting bigger, man. It’s a bright, giant Moon, but there’s also darkness. I’m trapped in self-sorrow, self-pity, tripping out -- and there’s a world of wonder to share. Then I mess up my hair and a nose hair is out of place. Then everything just stops -- and everything just freezes slow and beautiful and crazy ugly.

I don’t want anybody to mistake me to be the second cousin of Rob Ford in the end. There will be no mistake about it, everything goes to the Queen when I perish from this brown, ugly world. I’m giving everything I own to Her Majesty. It’s my choice. I don’t have all the answers, but this is not a friendly, vibrant green world. It’s a confusion of colours closer to brown (and the colour of the ugliest sweater in the ugliness of a white winter stuck in the depths of February somewhere in the Yukon). 

A YUKON POEM

From Canada to Cold-FX.
From America to a giant germ,
Genital herpes, a cold sore of the heart
Beyond Skyping your politics
Of Thanksgiving in October
Or Thanksgiving in November
And feeding your bloated head
Like Alice stuck in Wonderland.
Nevermind Nirvana
Never played in the Yukon
Or for sexy teen robots
Now dead
In HTML.
If this is totally off the wall,
Just imagine cold death
From Jefferson Airplane
To Jefferson Starship
Building cities
Of robots in the Yukon
With Courtney Love
Dancing madly
As a GIF.


Is death like sex with a hot robot? Imagine getting stuck in a wire and screwed forever. But maybe there’s something magical about death, like listening to insanely sick beats infused in thrash metal from Anthrax to Megadeth.

Celebrate life before and after death. Celebrate somebody who just changed their last name to October. Imagining Gary October as the creepiest jazz musician playing hits from his unleashed rare version of Autumn Cravings would be cool. Now imagine Gary October playing your funeral ceremony. A month when we least expect it, everything will come to an end. Who knows when we’ll go, but wouldn’t you want to go out to Gary October playing his jazz in a beautiful garden where the flowers never die? Some might call it heavenly, others might think it’s crazy, but have you planned your end? The Doors have their version of The End. Sometimes a show ends or sometimes a course or career or life ends. Sometimes it happens later and not sooner or vice versa. Right now, I’m imagining the sounds of Gary October and it sounds new like nothing I’ve ever heard before, and that’s how I’m imagining death. Death is something new like you’ve never heard and force yourself to hear. It’s nothing to fear, and it’s something you might find cool and play over and over again, because it’s always new and something magical. Death is stupid, but it might be far, far better. Trust me. I’m writing this for The Great Beyond.

Peace.