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.”
“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.

"You're not sorry." 

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.