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CHAPTER ONE

My geographic movements during the past year could be called “A Tale of Two Couches.” So as June draws to a close, I assume the position here again on Couch California. I am back in Hemet, the place the smug among us call Hemetucky--as if there was nothing a couple of Mint Juleps and a **** of Blue Grass wouldn’t cure. It is the year of our Lord, 2014: so far an interesting year for women. There was a woman who wore socks to bed. There was always my long-time, here today-gone tomorrow, long time companion, currently teaching somewhere remote on the Big Rez, a southwestern Navajo concentration camp near the 4 Corners.  Next, there’s my current object of affection, that fine and frisky lady from The Bronx by way of Bernalillo--currently at home in Laguna Beach, Orange County. Trixie: my main squeeze at the moment.

And now, completely out of the ******* blue this afternoon, my cell phone rings and it’s ******* Juanita--my all-time favorite woman, Juanita Mi Favorita de La Quinta--a Coachella Valley town and desert wadi, extending its lucrative winter tourist season to become a significant, year-round retirement venue and a robust service economy feeding off it.  Juanita arrived there in the late 80s, in middle of her early forties.  She was unemployed, homeless, just a suitcase to her name and a two-year old toddler in tow. Her parents were there, as was her Aunt Peggy.  Juanita was always Peggy’s favorite niece, her favorite child, actually, Peggy herself being childless, never married.  Aunt Peggy put her maternal instincts to work on Juanita Rodriguez, her Sister Rosalia’s second favorite twin daughter.

Maria, Rosalia’s first favorite daughter, Juanita’s twin sister—MARIA: lives in Newport Beach and acts as an extra in many commercial ads shot in southern California and elsewhere, an irony never without sting for Juanita. “Que lastima!” Poor Juanita: as her would-be Hollywood Movie star aspirations disintegrated over the years, along with her unrealized lower expectations to be TV star, and even those semi-glamorous modeling gigs at trade shows and fairs—the elephant’s graveyard of the acting profession—failed to materialize, and now her celebrity habitat shrunken even further, to that sporadic but consistent mockery of stardom, I refer to any would-be thespian’s ignominious one-celled visual protozoan: The Extra Call List.  And—*******-- what happens next? Juanita’s sister Maria starts getting these parts, starts getting hired by filling out a ******* postcard, starts getting paid to look good in the background. *******: no professional education or instruction, no agent, and no need to **** off both the producer, the producer’s cousin Morey, the director and the director’s wife’s huge Golden retriever, Genghis--actually a mighty handsome animal--or needing to spill $4K on that Derma-brasion, Juanita inflicted on herself last year.

Juanita, as you already know, was the second favorite daughter and the second favorite twin of the family. She became the third favorite child in her three-child family upon the arrival of her slick baby brother Nico-- the Golden Child, who grew up to be a glib Merrill-Lynch stockbroker, office and residence, Beverly Hills 90112.  (Enter forcefully into the narrative, His Nibs himself, Sir Nicodemus of Hollywood, Juanita and Maria’s baby brother Nico. He speaks: “Excuse me, stockbroker my ***, as it says in a 11 point Rockwell Boldfont, right here on my gold-leaf embossed business card: Senior Large Capital Investment Counselor.”)

No, Juanita had a hard time just treading water in that Cleveland shark tank. And though she lacked nothing in the cuteness department, she had this one fatal flaw, namely, the gift of ***** and sass and a reflex to speak truth to power. Juanita: rejected by Rosalia as a threat to her hegemony as Boss of the Girl’s Club, was cast adrift on a tempestuous childhood cruel Montserrat sea, out there on the briny deep . . .  
                

                                      



High Seas: where many a tuna has a Sorry Charlie moment: “Star-Kist don’t want no tuna with good taste; Star-Kist wants a tuna that tastes good.”

Finally, Juanita is rescued, taken aboard the Good/Soul Aunt Peggy—that wayward bark Elisabeta Rodriguez, home-ported in Southside, Chicago, Illinois—the rescue at sea performed in classy, rather low-key manner; no Andrea Doria drama, but understated:

{Camera One, Helicopter above, zooms over turbulent ocean surface. Peggy, an oasis of calm, aboard the raft Kon Tiki with Thor Heyerdahl and his crew, floats by, whispering, “Going my way, Honey? Climb aboard. Have a homemade oatmeal cookie and a small glass tumbler of Jack Daniels.” Okay, no, that’s not fair. Sure Aunt Peggy drank, but never got round to offering you a drink until you were well into your 30s. Let’s just say she offered you a warm glass of milk, the mother’s milk deprived you by your mother, her sister Rosalia. Dear Aunt Peggy: a seasoned survivor herself, flawed by early childhood deafness and grotesque speech.  Yet, she had refused to settle for life in an asylum. She made a go at life.  She learned; she prospered; she flourished. And when the time came, she was there for you in the Coachella Desert, there for her feisty niece Juanita Ann.  Aunt Peggy: a loving spirit personified, became Juanita’s special confidant and counselor, her personal cheer squad of one. Juanita, of course, a former cheerleader herself--an early hint of greatness to be sure, a highlight, perhaps the highlight of her life, shown off every Halloween, still celebrated at American high schools each Fall. She is the Principal’s secretary at a huge suburban high school in Indio. Each Halloween, if the date falls on a school day, Juanita arrives for work wearing that scrupulously preserved, vintage 1966 cheerleader uniform, looking real foxy still, snug now in all the right places. Eternal Truth: Juanita has always and will always be good looking. Life with Juanita is perpetual “ooh la-la.”

So, I am on the couch that afternoon, reading more of Gramsci’s prison notebooks, specifically the philosophy he calls “Praxis.”  Completely out of the ******* blue, Juanita calls me on a RESTRICTED phone, as I said, Juanita, a torch I’ve kept burning for years, flaring up like a refinery flame--oil still very much in the present energy mix--hope springing eternal as they say, and instantly my mission in life is rekindling our lost love. Juanita’s conceived her mission prior to her phone call:  using me to keep her son from being whacked by the local Eme--the Mexican Mafia—that ethnic-pride social club that the RICO-squad-- using family tree socio-grams and other expensively-printed graphics, the one RICO keeps trying to convince us is some sort of organized crime conspiracy. The Mexican Mafia: like everything else practical and utilitarian in this world: THAT’S ITALIAN! And, if you are starting to sense a bit of ethnic chauvinism on, between & below the lines, you are barking up the right tree.
                                                           ­     
      
                                                            
(AUTHOR’S POST-SCRIPT EDIT: And, an ad for dog food right here? Not the best choice of sponsors, perhaps, at the moment. Juanita was far off from the ****** ***** that start looking not half-bad at 2:30 in the glazy morning, not anywhere near those beasts you find lingering in the airport bars you usually frequent near closing time on Saturday nights. No, I remind you that Juanita was all “ooh la-la.” In my next printing—and my Lord, there have been so many, haven’t there, Paulie “Eat-a-Bag-of-****” Muldoon? I will change out the Alpo ad, plugging in a spot for Aunt Jemima pancake syrup or Betty Crocker whipped cream, you know, something more apropos.)

Juanita, I really must hand it to you. You showed the greatest staying power, year after year as I moved further and further away from La Quinta, California. Juanita: you embraced what was good in me, ignored my flaws and strengthened me with your love for so many years. As far as you and Peggy, I guess it was a case of the “apple not falling far from the tree” one of many endearing Midwestern metaphors you taught me.  Peggy taught you, taught you to be kind and then you taught me. No matter what bizarre venue I pulled out of my ***, you showed above-average staying power, continued to visit me wherever I went, Casa Grande & Buckeye, Arizona, Appalachia, West Virginia, and even Italy, when I thought I’d try Europe again after so many years.  With each move, each time, Juanita renewed her commitment to the relationship. Meanwhile, I continued to test her, quantifying her dedication, undermining her sense of mission to disprove my worldview on the expendability of women. Surely, you know that one: the unreliability of women, women who disappear without saying goodbye. That old deeply etched conviction to never get attached to a woman, any woman, based on the empirical fact that women have been known to suddenly die, a fact seared into my still tender metal by the surprise death of my mother on 11 January 1962.

1962. It was already an insecure world, to wit:  The Cuban Missile Crisis. Nikita Khrushchev, in his time both Dr. No and Dr. Evil, namely the Premier whom we Baby Boomers saw as Boogey Man of All Time (Although Putin is showing potential, lately)—the Kennedy ****** (what else could you call it?). All these events scary, whether or not I got the chronology right . . . I remained on high alert for any threat to my delicate adolescent psyche.  My mother-Rosa Teresa Sekaquaptewa-died at 2 o’clock in the morning, screaming in agony while apologizing to my father for not having his dinner on the table when he walked in from work that prior afternoon. She’d already been in bed since noon, attended by two of my aunts--both my father’s sisters--who loved their Hopi sister-in-law, Rosa.  Also present was Lafcadio Smirnoff, M.D.--last of the house call medicine men--a dapper, mustachioed, swarthy gentleman, misdiagnosing her abdominal pain as a 24-hour virus, while she bled out internally for at least eight more hours, her whimpers alternated with screams, well into the wee hours of the morning.

I was upstairs in that dormer bedroom listening to her die. An hour later, Father Numb-nuts of Our Lady of Lourdes Parish teleported in, beaming directly into my bedroom from the parish rectory.  Father Seamus Numb-nuts, an illuminated Burning Bush . . . not quite the bush I ‘d conjured at other times, so many times alone with Gwen Wong, ******* Playmate of the Year, 1961, one of Hefner’s hot centerfolds. No, give me a ******* break, you momo! Whacking off is the last thing on a libidinous, adolescent guinea’s brain when his mama is being tortured and killed by God. Even Alexander Portnoy, Philip Roth’s early avatar would have drawn the wanking line at that unforgettable moment.

No, perhaps what I’d had in mind was The Burning Bush Golf Course where so much of Fletcher Kneble’s political mischief and government shenanigans got cooked up. You remember his books, some of the Cold War’s finest: Seven Days in May, Vanished, etc.

Or better yet, perhaps the greatest political slogan of the 20th century: “STAY OUT THE BUSHES!” Thank you, Jesse. “Thank you, Reverend Jackson,” I slip into my Excellence in Broadcasting mode, my very own private Limbaugh. Announcing my on- air arrival is El Rushbo’s unmistakable, totally recognizable bass line bumper, courtesy of Chrissie Hynde’s Pretenders band mate, guitarist Tony Butler: Dum, dum, dum-dum, Da-dum, dum-dum-dum-dum-da-dum-dum. Single, “My City Was Gone” by The Pretenders
Rush Limbaugh Song– YouTube www.youtube.com/watch?v=SScW9r0y3c4

I become Reverend Jackson. I emerge from the vapors, an obscure abyss of deep family pangs and disappointments, ever-diminishing public relevance and fade to black (no pun intended) and media oblivion. The only thing left is that line:  “STAY OUT THE BUSHES!” You will always own that line, Jesse--true political genius (to wit: Rainbow Coalition) Jackson that you are, despite El Rush-Bo’s virulent anti-Black animus, his predilection to mock you, Al Sharpton, Corey Booker, Barack “Hussein” Obama, and any other professional ***** in America. Isn’t it time someone came right out and tagged Mr. Limbaugh as the Father Coughlin of our time.

Meanwhile back in The Bronx, enter another man of the cloth:  It’s Seamus Numb-nuts, making one of his many well-documented spectral visitations, his splendiferous miracles and wonders. How much longer will the Vatican ignore this humble Bronx priest, this epitome of Sainthood; this reverent man, lacking only the stigmata for a unanimous consent vote? Quote the Numb-nuts: “God Works in Mysterious Ways.” An old standard to be sure, but a lovely, all-purpose bromide for explaining why evil exists in our world. Needless to say, I was underwhelmed; I lost God at that moment, consequently shooting myself in the foot--metaphorically-speaking-condemning myself to an unshielded life, life OUT THE BUSHES!  I went forth into the world without God, without that handy divine crutch, that Andy Devine metaphor for when one’s legs grow weary: a puff of smoke, a reverb twang and a nasty frog croaking “Hi-ya, Kids. Hi-ya, Hi-ya. Hi-ya.”

   Andy's Gang - Pasta Fazooli vs. Froggy the Gremlin - YouTube
► 3:55► 3:55
www.youtube.com/watch?v=H35odPm7b3w Aug 8, 2012 - Uploaded by jmgilsinger
Froggy the Gremlin -Tuba ... Andy Devine (Aug 24, 1952)

Life for me became lonely and purposeless. And probably explains my susceptibility to military discipline and a subsequent career in clandestine government service. In 1968--the very day I turned nineteen, September 25th of that year—that fateful day when I should have shot myself in the foot—literally not metaphorically--earning that coveted 4-F physical rejection, a draft deferment to be desired, that 4-F classification of unfitness for duty, a necessary loophole in U.S. conscript service law.  The Draft: last used during that great commonwealth Cold War purge, that culling out of the unwashed, uneducated children of immigrants, that cut-rate, discount, lower socio-economic ***** bank—the only bank where after you make a deposit, you lose interest, to wit: most Black, Hispanic and Poor White Trash parents.  We were cannon fodder, many of us got to be planted at Arlington and other holy American shrines, still wrapped in black or olive drab leak-proof body bags, doing our generational bit to strengthen the gene pool left behind. A debt, some would say, we owed the country and, given the sorry state of the global wicket, increasingly an obligation to the species. And if I had to predict an outcome, Fascism in America will arrive riding the white horse of the environmental, anti-nuclear Bolsheviks. One could argue that Communism has moved so far left on the political spectrum that it’s now the far right.  Concoct a legislative policy goal, accomplish it legally as the bill becomes Law, signed by the President, endorsed and blessed by The U.S. Supreme Court, the highest court in the land.

To wit: “Three generations of imbeciles is enough?” declared Oliver Wendell Holmes, Jr., an Associate Supreme Court Justice at the time, buttressing a majority argument harnessing the power of U.S. law as a legal means of purifying the race.  When euthanasia failed to win over American hearts and mind, the Federal Government played the war card again and again. Vietnam: undeclared and therefore unconstitutional--except for that Gulf of Tonkin ******* resolution. Vietnam: a cost-plus eugenics project, if ever there was one, although responsive, of course, to the needs of the Military-Industrial Complex.  ******* Ike: he warned us against Fascism in America. As usual, we ignored the man in charge.

Eugenics? Why didn’t the government just put all the retards on the stand, as John Frankenheimer did in Judgment at Nuremberg, a crafty Maximilian Schell humiliating a feeble-minded Montgomery Clift?  Why not, make everyone face a public tribunal, forcing all of us to testify in court, exposing our many substandard and borderline substandard cerebral deficits?  Why not force everyone to demonstrate just how ******* dumb we are, using some clever intelligence test, something l
Louis Brown Jan 2011
There is a hate spouter named Rush
His brain spews great piles of horse mush
He thinks that Sarah
Is the first female savior
But we know that Palin's a bust

She lost the race in the last one
They’ll lose warming over this past one
We poo on her chatter
She’s short on gray matter
And Limbaugh must truly have none

His whole diatribe is a crock
But He thinks his candidate’s hot
As we know she’s copeless
And far beyond hopeless
And that’s why we owe Limbaugh a lot

So when you bed down on this night
Thank God that Rush Limbaugh ain’t bright
We’ll smile to remember
When cometh November
If right wingers followed his flight
Copyright Louis Brown
Liberal affirmative action!
Bill Clinton responds with the bananas of racist market economies.
Paula Jones holds meetings on the trade embargos of Republican controversies.
Thus Newt Gingrich has affairs with voluptuous filibusters!

Congress serves subpoenas to socialist health care.
Knowest thou how the Justice Department debates with Social Security's agony?
The Religious Right wants to impeach poodle ecstasy,
But it's known that Rush Limbaugh spews forth fundamentalist tax cuts.
the word thief Jan 2014
this is about how positive thinking is a stupid waste of time
well, not all positive thinking is *******
like, if you have a goal and you are trying to meet it
then of course it behooves you to be positive about it
it behooves you to say
yeah, i am going to get to that point
or i am going to get as close as i possibly can
and that is like
positive thinking that is proactive -
the kind of positive thinking i am criticizing
are the kind of people who think that all the worlds problems can be solved simply
by the act of being happy
or being upbeat and positive
cause it seems like in a lot of ways
i belong to a generation of people
that are so focused on the silver lining
that they miss the ******* giant *** storm cloud heading their way
you know, it's good to see the bright side
but if you only focus on the bright side
how can you ever address the real problems that face you
not every situation should be turned into something positive
there are certain things in life that just are negative
and they need to be confronted not with the power of positive thinking
but with the power of intelligent thinking
and the power of taking action based upon intelligent thinking
but most people in this country are just inert idiots
they won't act unless they are acted upon
they won't think unless you spoon feed their thoughts into them
that's why you have all these idiots listening to ******* Rush Limbaugh
they'll just sit there and nod their empty ******* head like
"yeah,Rush knows what's up"
Rush doe's not know what's up
Rush is a ******* idiot
look, our generation has some serious, serious ******* problems to face
climate change and the ensuing ecological disasters
couple that with over population
there's going to be scarcity of resources
if you live in america you are also going to have to deal with things like
growing income inequality cause you know they aren't going to pass some new minimum wage thing
in the near future
because we also have in this country an infestation
of social conservatives who become increasingly more aggressive and obstructionist
as they realize they are losing their grip on the country
that's just a FEW of the problems that our generation is going to have to be the ones to face
and right now all i'm seeing from people is
"we need to stop fat shaming people" "people need to be comfortable with their own body image"
and "we need to get more rights for gays"
look,
that's fine
that's wonderful
that's a good start
but those problems are insignificant compared to what awaits you
and i don't ******* think you people are ready
i think your sitting there with your thumbs up your *** thinking
"well the world is just going to work out as it does and i'm just going to sit here and just kinda go blumby blumbly bluuummmbb and imma think happy thoughts! maybe if i think happy enough thoughts, i'll turn into peter pan and fly away to ******* neverland and i won't have to deal with any of this ****"
well sorry, THAT'S NOT A ******* OPTION!
your stuck here on this planet like the rest of us
you might want to take some interest
you might want to stop just looking on the bright side and start looking at the ******* dark side
because the dark side is bigger
and it's going to get bigger and bigger and bigger
unless you think
unless you do something about it
and when i say you i don't just mean you
i mean me too

*T.J.
Seán Mac Falls Jan 2013
Dazed, infusions of hate,
Swineherd is dirtiest of pigs,
******* Limbaugh rush.
I keep fondling dreams as I  
flip through FOX, CNN and MSNBC networks.

An electric lady land fantasy
of revolutions where over and over and
under and through inconsistent gibberish of
conservative conversationalists’ and
liberal libel is taken for truth.

My heart is pumping out toxic fiber optic
editorial journalistic pollution like kidneys
                        secrete the habit of alcohol and
                                             cigarette poisons.
  
Our dependence on government help is
broken glass shards ruining the
veins of society

while Limbaugh, and spring chicken heads with a
View are enslaving our voices and
limiting the truth of our choices using
eminent domain for our minds as they spit out  
their opinions through television and radio
frequencies into our brain waves as truth.

How some American hearts stay warm with
nightly news schisms, burning intolerance,
unreal realism, religious sincerity posed
and limp **** ****** commercials
is amazing.  But still a paradox hoax.
From the book, The Evolution of A Word Made Flesh: Pathos Ethos Logos Thoth by Gustavo Rodriguez available on Amazon.com
Martin Bailes Feb 2017
Because in my day dreams
& in a heartbeat,
the Coke brothers
would be re-educated
digging deep wells
in Flint Michigan
till they found pure
clean water.

Kobe Bryant's wife
would have her
million dollar ring
expropriated & broken
down for drill bits
to use in the digging
of Flint wells by the
same Coke brothers.

All Kardashian holdings
everywhere & anyhow
would be seized by
the state & sold to the
foreign precious stone
market & the proceeds
used for funding
school book buys.

Trump Tower would be
occupied and stripped
of all its false veneer
while Barron's gold
baby carriage would
take pride of place
in The People's Museum
of The New Dawn &
groups of school children
would field trip to marvel
& learn.

Fox News executives
would be arrested along
with Limbaugh, Hannity
a multitude of talk-show
hosts as enemies-of-the-
people & re-educated
digging canals from the
high Rockies through to
San Luis Obispo to help
water the farms which
would now be unionized
& minimum waged & there'd
be taco trucks on every
corner for free workers
lunch & luxury campers
for naps from the burning
midday sun.

History lessons would
be for real this time,
buffalos would be
encouraged mightily
to breed and roam the
western lands where
Indian tribes would
return to pastures
of old & they'd house
themselves in teepees
hand-sewn by bankers
& hedge-fund managers
lodged in converted
L.A. mansions with armed
guards for the duration.

The NRA leadership
would be hog-tied &
immediately put to work
in foul prison conditions
producing ploughshares
from swords in blazing
merciless kilns & every
Sunday they'd be cuffed
& 'compassionate-leaved'
to the closest cemetery
where they'd visit the
graves of the fallen
children & granmas
taken by ricochets.

Prisons would use
psilocybin cure-alls,
golf-courses would turn
into adventure petting-
zoo play grounds,
Syrian children would
move into Hampton
mansions,

Detroit & West Virginia
would be declared
emergencies & the
entire overseas hidden
off-shore accounts of
the top 1% would fund
roads, bridges, schools,
doctors & nurses,
teachers, professors
& crossing guards.

Trump himself would
have to restore all the
gravestones in all the
Jewish cemeteries in
all the States,
& then,
& only then,
could he have
his lunch hour.

Because in a heartbeat
I could be far worse
than that & perhaps
in some ways it's a
good thing I'm not
the boss.
Michael Shepherd Jan 2014
Ethereal. That's the squirming quality of that health-hazard house,
where a byproduct of divorce emulsion slept in a bare room on
a bare air mattress, vacuously lying around with the blinds down,
vicious AM radio mumbling through the walls. Homeschooling was more like
becoming housebroken, given that my social network consisted of thirty feral cats.
I suppose some boys require a deadbolt on their room's door.

Well, I grew up quick and I grew up mean,
My fist got hard and my wits got keen,
I'd roam from town to town to hide my shame.

The apathy cloud that crawled the house led to a
(the deadbolt was to lock me out of my room; not in)
prison break; I awkwardly assured myself that I would
never be anything if I was still Pinocchio, and pleaded
to go to liberal-dominated-non-Rush-Limbaugh-approved public schools.
I did; I got into university, I got a grant, I do research,
I got a job, I got a girl, I got a job, I got a girl...
I don't know how to leave my room now that I'm free.
I still hear the crackle of conversative talk radio.

'Cause we'll put a boot in your *** / It's the American way.

Like trembling flotsam I drift into every class,
every party, every... A poem can regurgitate a person who is all
covered in spit and acid and memories. I still know that house
better than I know my own breathing body. I'm just going to keep running;
like a yellowed refrigerator housing second-amendment-upbringing-coleslaw;
like an overheating computer; like I always do; statically, in stasis.

Well, I grew up quick and I grew up mean,
My fist got hard and my wits got keen,
I'd roam from town to town to hide my shame.
Holly Smith Aug 2014
I'm a little too familiar with
gas station coffee
(and restrooms)
I know all of the roads and the mountains
that line them
I have known every cheap motel
stared at every continental breakfast
(burned coffee and rubber eggs)
and I can pack for anything in ten minutes or less.

I have known cities lit by the night
and passes comfortably fringed by fog
skeleton trees on dead beaches
gas-station Cheetos eaten at 3 am
sleeping on a friends shoulder
or listening to another iPod playlist
alone in the dark
the casual immodesty between traveling partners
and wearing 3 layers of sweats
to ward off the cold of the journey.
I re-read poetry by flashlight
while ghosts of headlights flutter
as I leave everything behind me
again.

I love the road blazing by
because it takes me a way from everything I remember
away from the family that is not mine
away from the cages and bars and lies about my beliefs
about my identity
the oppression of mandatory religion
the self-destructive hate
who I used to be.

I wrote poems about my knives because they were my comfort
they were beautiful to me
I romanticized my pain because I was a romantic at heart
but a romantic without love
and so I turned to blood and knives and tried to make it into poetry
thought that it could somehow be beautiful
and the sad thing is that it was
it gave more comfort than my family,
it was closer than my friends,
more reliable than any god.

The road scours that all away, reminds me
that I can leave, I am free, there is more to the world
than what I grew up knowing.
More than Rush Limbaugh and misogynist preachers
more than latent racism and open homophobia
more than my shame in my acceptance of these as normal
there is a whole world where
people don't live chained to bibles
and that gives me hope.

I have never known home here,
but driving and driving and driving
shows me that the world is larger than I know
and maybe I can find it somewhere.
NeroameeAlucard May 2015
AHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAGAHAGAHAHAHAHAHAHA

FINALLY THE WORLD IS MINE
IVE BEATEN ALL RESISTANCE INCLUDING DIVINE
SO FINALLY I CAN TAKE THIS EARTH SO PRIMITIVE
AND SHAPE IT THE WAY I SEE FIT

I'LL TAKE THE EIFFEL TOWER AND REMAKE IT AS A ROCKET
I'LL TAKE THE SOUTHWEST AND SINK IT SO THE SOIL CAN SOFTEN
THE WORLD NOW BOWS BEFORE MY BOOTED HEEL
SO I COULD CARE LESS ABOUT HOW YOU FEEL

I'LL DEMAND THAT THE POETS CORNER USERS COMMENT CONSTANTLY
WHETHER THE PIECE IS GOOD OR BAD CONSTRUCTIVE CRITICISM IS WELCOME YOU SEE
I'D VAPORIZE RUSH LIMBAUGH, I'D CRUSH BILL O'REILLY'S SPINE..

at least.. that's what I'd say If the world was mine
What would happen if I took over the world? This
They said it was a category five
Thank god its roar
Turn into a category four
Laying waste to many a life
Wiping away the property
The Caribbean’s sign of liberty
From the mishap of Grenada in 1983
10 dead
They can still look ahead
But the thoughts keep going to Florida
But didn’t think Trump kept you in his thoughts did ya
Took you a while to get the evacuation through
As the political tensions grew
And Trump declared it as not good not good
The closest you can come to trifling is by saying that Irma isn’t the result of a good mood
But enough chitter chatter because there is an SOS on the rise
In such a situation climate deniers consider climate change to be the reason as their surmise
Rush Limbaugh cannot see the truth
Because his face is buried deep in the smoke that will pollute
Hurricane Irma I pray the woman in your name understands and leaves the children alone
Because there are no sins to atone for if they are orphaned and dead alone
They’ll be on the prowl for food and money and liquor and ending up appraising the days that are sunny
But funnily anyway they are because you business ******* have increased your influx of money from the disaster stricken many
Water, air trips you’ve been taking business studies from **** Cheney
Hurricane Irma is no femme fatale to ***** with. Already after the SOS alert one dead. My heart goes out to them. And this is what my heart says. Relishing an attire of satire.
jeffrey robin Jul 2010
hilary clinton is a.....liberal!!.....?????

MY, OH MY!
SO THEN
WHO AM I?

rush limbaugh .......he speaks for "us!!"....?????

MY, OH MY!
SO THEN
WHO AM I?

the tea bag party.....it stands up for the weak!!.....????


MY, OH MY!
SO THEN
WHO AM I?

we have all "been erased!!"

come
let us
Paint eachother in
(and boldly!!!)

truthfully and clearly
in our Hearts and Minds
..............

(then
we may know ourselves
and

LIVE)
Duane Kline Feb 2014
A model of pretense
and monopoly
          "And now, Oprah's favorite things!"

Where choice doesn't really exist-
We get the same
However we choose
          Right...left...whatever

Dogs barking, howling
at whoever lives in the white house,
Beck, Limbaugh, Olbermann, Maddow...
we see the mouths moving,
and all we hear is blame
and fear,
sarcasm and hopeless wit.
          "We'll be right back after the break..."
          with more from the EIB Network...
          or MSNBC...
          or Fox News

We've found that what we have
in common
is at the bottom,
not the top.
         "Jerry! Jerry! Jerry!"

Forgetting our history,
doomed to repeat it
          "All glory is fleeting, All glory is fleeting..."

A country where tilting
at windmills,
or millstones
means you're crazy...
Forget what's important
jeffrey robin Feb 2014
the LONG BOAT
upon the

LONG RIVER

•••••

-----     (Indian Mystique).    -----

•••••

Cool the breezes thru woods
Carrying

The SOUND of the Drum

•••

He huddled down in the boat
Trying to get rush limbaugh
On his radio

"**** this Liberal ****!"
he thought

Gazing at the bronzed perfectly healthy bodies
All around


" though I'd like to **** that kid over there"

He smirked

While toying with the Gold Cross
Around his neck

•••
•••
•••

The sun stood still

As it had for 5 days



Only 2 more days to go

(Only 2 more days)

Then we'll see what's really
Goin on

We will know by

What gets  done
W
.
..
...
....
Rush Limbaugh
Martin Bailes Mar 2017
There's more honesty
in the dance
of the
Hare Krishna's
than in the
whole recorded
unexpurgated
output
of that shallow
vicious
son of a gun
Rush Limbaugh.

There's more honesty
in the Indian practice
of cleaning
your ***
with water
than there is
in the fearful
paranoid
lunacies
of that *******
Wayne Lapierre.

There's more honesty
in the corridors
of the insane asylum
just west
of town
than from the chattering
smart suited
short-skirted
well combed
anchors
of that
infamous TV station
for 68 year old
and upward
aging
white men.

There's more honesty
in the chirrup
of a cricket
or the crows
caw
than in the
dismal distractions
of this
chattering culture,
which daily
deceive
&
distract
us,

oh yes.
Honestly.
Lawrence Hall Aug 2019
...of The People

           “He’s an individual, and they’re always trying.”

                      -The Colonel in Many Happy Returns,
                                  episode 7 of The Prisoner

I do not want to be one of The People
With nose rings and tattoos, tee-shirts, knee pants
Rush Limbaugh and Glenn Beck on the radio
Foul fungal feet and toes shoved into flops

I do not want to be one of The People
A howling face in an anonymous mob
With a Kalashnikov and ammo drum
A made-in-China heel-spurred baseball cap  

I do not want to be one of The People
And so…
Your ‘umble scrivener’s site is: Reactionarydrivel.blogspot.com

It’s not at all reactionary, tho’ it might be drivel.

Lawrence Hall’s vanity publications are available on amazon.com as Kindle and on bits of dead tree:  THE ROAD TO MAGDALENA, PALEO-HIPPIES AT WORK AND PLAY, LADY WITH A DEAD TURTLE, DON’T FORGET YOUR SHOES AND GRAPES, COFFEE AND A DEAD ALLIGATOR TO GO, and DISPATCHES FROM THE COLONIAL OFFICE.

— The End —