an exploding tv dinner--in a microwave,
on a **** tube.
then the Tetra-like gridlock of a channel's
spectrum, the air's breathing spell.
Robert Johnson turned over as a raw lick
at the crossroads--his voice & guitar digging
a hole in vinyl.
the bluesiest devil exhorting: 'you're almost there
Robby--I'll tell you when to stop.'
a crackling breakthrough lifts an emphatic warp.
meaty hands holding balloons & cotton candy,
having a good day above ground--as other
meaty hands check their raffle tickets for the
winning number at the fair.
which's a special house visit from Pogo the Clown,
who'll have a staring contest with anyone present,
then leave.
the following was filmed in front of a live studio
audience: hived crosshatchings, rashy doubles
(2/1-1/2)--the rippling harp of daydreaming sitcom
characters, keys in each cloud they want to throw in
a bowl.
Robert Crumb's existential countdown from zero, his
neurotic flashback-flashforward Americana,
what-to-do-nowness.
out-drawing suicide, perhaps play tenor banjo in
the South of France...