"refried" poems
[PART ONE]
xeroxed, RT'd and plagiarized
so many times on so many blogs
tween blogs to republican blogs
to blogs in Russia and
blogs no one ever scrolls though...
original content is prey
but I have a warning for they:
overrated, over-shared
content aggregators beware
the lines you swap can
rot and ware
the World Wide Web
does not care.
[PART TWO]
original content
original contests
original continent
original controversy
original coordination between strangers
original calvary riding their connection into the battlefield of internet memes; creating nothing and sharing everything
[COMMENTARY]
original nothing, nowhere, nobody except facebook "Funny Vidoes!" & "Cool Quotes!". 'Like' pages whose sole originality lies within their own existence but nothing they share. They steal from the rest of the web and re-post what they find for out-of-the-loop troglodytes; often done so in inferior context and with no perspective. The 'refried beans' phenomenon, I call it. I find it fitting because 'refried beans' are a double misnomer. The name comes from 'frijoles refritos' - which means 'well-fried' not 'refried'. They are also never traditionally fried more than once. Yet the name sticks, it gets repeated, it gets re-shared and now that's what they are: refried beans. This phenomenon is why I believe art and all original content eventually become so over-shared and overrated that it's no longer interesting but irritating. These three parts of the poem "Original Content" are separated in abstract authorial presentation. The author has clearly expressed his dislike for the disjunct un-imagination of the internet and presents it as such.
[PART THREE]
original authors losing control of their audiences who believe they are the creators and the artist's art is somewhat shareable
original miscommunication between web 1.0 and web 2.0 reality
original alphabet they use to type on their keyboards
original grammar they learned in school
original money their gov't printed
original content they re-post
original refried beans
original content
orginal contet
ogrinal cotent
ognal ctt
oc
.
Mar 9, 2014
Mar 9, 2014 at 10:01 PM UTC
[PART ONE]
xeroxed, RT'd and plagiarized
so many times on so many blogs
tween blogs to republican blogs
to blogs in Russia and
blogs no one ever scrolls though...
original content is prey
but I have a warning for they:
overrated, over-shared
content aggregators beware
the lines you swap can
rot and ware
the World Wide Web
does not care.
[PART TWO]
original content
original contests
original continent
original controversy
original coordination between strangers
original calvary riding their connection into the battlefield of internet memes; creating nothing and sharing everything
[COMMENTARY]
original nothing, nowhere, nobody except facebook "Funny Vidoes!" & "Cool Quotes!". 'Like' pages whose sole originality lies within their own existence but nothing they share. They steal from the rest of the web and re-post what they find for out-of-the-loop troglodytes; often done so in inferior context and with no perspective. The 'refried beans' phenomenon, I call it. I find it fitting because 'refried beans' are a double misnomer. The name comes from 'frijoles refritos' - which means 'well-fried' not 'refried'. They are also never traditionally fried more than once. Yet the name sticks, it gets repeated, it gets re-shared and now that's what they are: refried beans. This phenomenon is why I believe art and all original content eventually become so over-shared and overrated that it's no longer interesting but irritating. These three parts of the poem "Original Content" are separated in abstract authorial presentation. The author has clearly expressed his dislike for the disjunct un-imagination of the internet and presents it as such.
[PART THREE]
original authors losing control of their audiences who believe they are the creators and the artist's art is somewhat shareable
original miscommunication between web 1.0 and web 2.0 reality
original alphabet they use to type on their keyboards
original grammar they learned in school
original money their gov't printed
original content they re-post
original refried beans
original content
orginal contet
ogrinal cotent
ognal ctt
oc
.
Apr 7, 2015
Apr 7, 2015 at 12:42 PM UTC
Write everyday.
Write everyday no matter what.
Write even at a loss for words.
Write down the sounds.
I make notes of the plane crashes
I've never heard, the brook trout
that never shook pond water
onto the brittle grass when I didn't
catch it, or the thunder cup coil
I keep kneeing trying to give the overcast
over the mountain something to compete
with.
And I'm not sorry.
I'm not. I'm not sorry that my
reborn Christian best friend has seen the light,
and I still scoff when people pray over potatoes.
And I only believe in plastic Polaroid postcards
from last decade timestamped in the white space
with Bic black ink.
I'm not sorry for that.
And truth is, I've never washed this black shirt;
just hung it hoping that moths' would ****
the sweat spots and leave
the fabric.
I clenched the gold cap beneath
my ring finger from the glass green
bottle occupying my lips driving
down the Marsh Creek bridge.
I wanted to relate / to be relatable /
relative to the sedans, and seatbelts
too tight to breathe, passing me.
At the end of the bridge, where there was no chance
of drowning and the road color changed, I parked
in the driveway of a wooden house. Its blinds
were up, shades pulled apart with two hands
like gas station freezer doors, leaving them
vulnerable to the hiss of semi truck tractor
trailer high beams slicing through fifty +
raindrops per second going a few miles shy
of sixty-five, yet the people inside moved so freely.
I sat Indian-style—a term I learned at four
then learned it to be racist at fourteen—
in their driveway, and ate the gravel
they walked on trying to taste security
because all I'd had in the last few hours
were plates of refried fear.
Fear of audit, of my teeth breaking off,
and of ending up like Eric Garner
when I heard that wailing
Voice of Justice
coming for me in the distance.
Dec 16, 2014
Dec 16, 2014 at 4:32 PM UTC
Under the I-20 bridge
over the Chatta-
'hoochee suits me
fine as fishin' line
- I've been retried
and found
I ain't wanted
nothing but a winter coat -
my sweet mutt Woof
- an old six string Martin
and a 'frigerator carton
for sleeping in the winter wind
when the sun don't shine -
I don't have a bone to pick
- my fingers ain't quiet as quick
and nimble on a riff - my back is stiff
- but my voice is still whiskey
smooth and my words turn
water into thunderbird - wine
retried suits me just fine
- jailhouse jeans
and salvation army boots -
refried beans and cheap cheroots
- sitting on an old truck tire
around an open fire
I've been retried and trued
but I ain't yet retired -
somebody's got
to feed my dog -
sing some songs
- catch these fish
and start the fire -
drink a little *****
- 'neath the I-20 bridge
over the Chattahoochee
rivaaa····
r ~ 10/16/14
Oct 16, 2014
Oct 16, 2014 at 9:13 PM UTC
1 cup jitters
3 cups drained confidence
6 stalks worry, finely chopped
2 tablespoons crushed hope
6 cups toxic shock
2 slices defrosted denial
1 leaf shredded Roe v. Wade
6 seared As-salāmu ʿalaykum
1 can LGBT despair
3 pints refried refugees
Marinated anger
DACA pain
Stir jitters and confidence to coat.
Sauté worry, blend shock and denial.
Combine dread and crushed hope.
Transfer all to a crockpot.
Fold in Roe v. Wade.
Cook on high for 6 hours.
Pour stew into large bowl.
Garnish with grief.
Serve with side of pain
and salad tossed with anger.
Open a bottle of What To Do Next.
Nov 22, 2016
Nov 22, 2016 at 10:51 AM UTC
(Intending to ink this early Sunday evening, twas useful I didn't....
(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCLXI)
Think: "they said twas a war-time measure..." pale
Skies washed of clouds as golden light from hence
Bathes these lost wastes with April's freighted sense
Of violets just in tow; as blue heavns hail
The dinner table set with plates t'avail
Our refried beans, cheese, yoghurt, chips fr'intents,
Where all have better things to do, pretense
Trimmed to half curtsy whiles I search for bail.
So I dined when the clock said "now." in tour,
And yearn to linger, watching those deep blue
Heavns which cull shadows to cavort as twere
In Sunday evning's calm. Yet that won't do.
I wash the dishes; study all, then fer
Whatever, scamper off til gloaming'd woo.
11Mar19a
Mar 12, 2019
Mar 12, 2019 at 1:21 AM UTC
In contrast with the cold morning air,
The house was cozy and warm
As we all arrived to participate
Like worker bees starting to swarm.
The smell of pork and refried beans
Permeated the room.
The champagne bottles were chilling on ice--
How much did we consume?
Sally brought some egg McMuffins.
I thought, "Something's amiss:
Egg McMuffins and NO pan dulce!°°
What kind of party is this?"
But I wouldn't miss it--nope--for nada:
The annual Alonzo family tamalada.
The giant bucket of masa°°° awaited
Marisa's kneading hands.
While she kneaded the dough, the rest of us
Listened for Sally's commands.
After a brief champagne toast,
Our assembly line started.
Everyone had a job to do;
It wasn't for the faint-hearted.
Spreading the masa on the husks
Was a messy task.
I wondered, "How many will we make?"
But I was afraid to ask.
It wasn't very long before
Everyone in the casa
Was practically covered from head to foot
With fluffy tamale masa.
We spread and stuffed and folded and wrapped
While Sally entertained us.
The conversation, laughter, fun,
And champagne all sustained us.
The wonderful smells of lunch also
Encouraged us to work hard
Lest we be known as shirkers and our
Reputations be marred.
But I wouldn't miss it--nope--for nada:
The annual Alonzo family tamalada
After a few hundred tamales,
The masa was getting low.
I said, "Yay! We're almost done!"
But Alice said, "Oh, no.
That was just the pork; now we're
Making chile and cheese."
Blurry-eyed I held up my spoon
And said, "More hojas,°°°° please."
On and on we continued to work
Like hive bees making honey.
But it was worth it, for these tamales
Are more valuable than money.
Alice, Yvonne, Kathy, Yolie,
Aida, and Sally know why--
As do Marisa, Rebecca, Karen,
Marisol, Nancy, and I--
We always look forward to getting together
For laughter, fun, and cheer
And this spirited, heart-warming gathering
Whenever December is here.
Homemade tamales can't be beat
When made in our special fashion
With love, care, conviviality,
Warmth, goodwill and passion.
I wouldn't miss it--nope--for nada:
The annual Alonzo family tamalada.
__________
°tamale-making party
°°Mexican sweet bread
°°°dough
°°°°(corn husk) leaves
- by Bob B
Dec 1, 2016
Dec 1, 2016 at 8:53 PM UTC
The heavy dust from dry summers
selling Chiclets inside the rim of a sombrero
Tortured attire of a woolen rainbow
Poncho, pleading to appear a lowly vagabond
by an uncle who seeds alleyways,
Clothed in his tequila stench;
Instructed by an aunt, obese from endless
refried beans and Uno-Vision sopas.
“Chiclets! --at the top of your lungs, mejo!"
Louder as the weight of the dust devils possess
His voice : a squeaking version of itself,
Coughing at the same spot in Tijuana’s
Miserable, the invisible, at market...
Dirt in his tears, no longer noticed, too often cried
There is no need to pretend how lowly
Or ***** his juvenile face has smeared;
A clown of earthen make-up, in misery’s portrait,
to example the tender, the precious,
have been left to pander to love, for sale.
A paradigm of angels, fallen with the truth;
Deep into this formidable fate in hell.
Here, he is not above the silence
But he must live in it, live to tell,
How wishes are often made without a well.
Jan 16, 2017
Jan 16, 2017 at 5:38 AM UTC
sigh as evidenced by which pieces "trend" being depressed is tops, while beauty is left to rot. Whateffer.
(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCLXXVII)
Blue skies. And golden light with shadows' pale
Forms on the yellowed lawns and blacktop hence,
Sweet minutes whose eye seems tis April's, whence
My heart yearns 'gain to walk free and avail
Me of which blossom? Daffodils to scale
Shall send green nubbins up til for intents
Their frilly golden heads can nod from thence
To playful breezes while wee violets hail.
Yea, soon Magnolia petals shall bestir
'Gain to soft winds, and pink-tinged satin woo
Thoughts of a bride upon the aisle as twere.
For now we'll have our refried beans and do
Dessert in birthday style with cake in tour
And ice cream for the Ides of March' ado.
15Mar19d
Mar 15, 2019
Mar 15, 2019 at 11:45 PM UTC
In the heavy dust
from dry summers
selling Chiclets from inside the rim of a sombrero,
Tortured attire of a woolen rainbow
Poncho, pleading to appear a lowly vagabond
by an uncle who seeds alleyways,
Clothed in his tequila stench;
Instructed by an aunt, obese from endless
refried beans and Uno-Vision sopas.
“Chiclets! --at the top of your lungs, mejo!"
Louder as the weight of the dust devils possess
His voice : a squeaking version of itself,
Coughing at the same spot in Tijuana’s
Les Miserables, the invisible, at market...
Dirt in his tears, no longer noticed, too often cried
There is no need to pretend how lowly
Or dinghy his juvenile face has smeared;
A clown of earthen make-up, in misery’s portrait,
to example the tender, the precious,
have been left to pander to love, for sale.
A paradigm of angels, fallen with the truth;
Deep in this formidable of fates, of hell...
Here, he is not above the silences,
but he must live in it, live to tell.
How wishes are often made without a well.
Jan 2, 2021
Jan 2, 2021 at 1:27 PM UTC
I was, too.
(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCCIX)
Let's see...rain draws up silver puddles' tale
Of being upon the blacktop, where suspense
Is fast asleep cuz Sunday augured thence
Mair calm than it could e'er endure, the pale
Eye of uncertain hours with half a frail
Thought dawn played hooky for all that, a sense
None can e'en yawn worn out as sheer pretense
Was quite arraigned in morn's half light: sans bail.
I roll words 'cross my tongue at lunch as twere,
And sparrows take the chance to gaily cue
Fond smiles til conversation rules in tour.
Now's time to put on rice to boil anew,
Warm refried beans for dinner, lo, bestir
Me fin'lly to jot down a note...where to?
24Mar19a
Mar 28, 2019
Mar 28, 2019 at 12:43 AM UTC
I sit in the gutter
I sit on the street
I sit on the mud
just below the creek
I ramble in the wind
I row in the stream
I talk to bugs
& eat refried beans
I smile in the morning
I cry in the night
I am only guided by
a flickering light
Dec 28, 2019
Dec 28, 2019 at 6:20 PM UTC
I will, seriously.
(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCXII)
It musta been a west wind that curved thence
The dripping stream as lo, in sheer betrayl
An icicle likeas a dagger'd hail--
Some scimitar hung from the eaves for sense
Replies at blueish gloaming as I hence
Glance up to notice that cold thing's detail
Which arcs in layered fashion as the pale
Light dwindles on a Friday evning, whence?
Swear refried beans are NOT enough, as fer
Good measure we down Little Caesar's to
Effect, the pepperoni pizza cure
For fevered appetites, with play to do
That treat in style as I am dragged off, poor
Though my cries, "I have dishes--!" And what's new?
15Feb19b
Mar 9, 2019
Mar 9, 2019 at 9:24 PM UTC
We had a jolly good time at the Elgin Literary Festival's 2018 publick poetry reading. sigh we did.
(sonnet #MMMMMMCMX)
Ah, gloaming roosts in greyer hours' suspense,
Where naked trees down in the valley hail
Is't colder silence no voice would avail?
And lo, I cherish, as erst wont, the sense
Culled by that fragile eye which yields from hence
To night's sheer blackness, as upon thet scale
Lights 'gin to twinkle from both houses' tale
To streets cars drive in haste through for intents.
The furnace clicks on, growling whiles I stir
Our refried beans, rice cooked, snack on chips too,
As, table set, how dinner warms anew.
What is't to hang out with my fellows fer
Sweet hours? The lecture fine, class dry in poor
'Scuse, what I loved was them and theirs: what's new?
28Jan18b
Feb 10, 2018
Feb 10, 2018 at 10:03 PM UTC
...well, I neglected to stir the refried beans as I wrote this...
(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCXLII)
Snow flurries past the window for a sense
Of what's beyond these bathroom tiles in pale
Morn's eye, where lo, in lieu of dawn, a veil
As twere of white tricks out the cracks from hence
Likeas some veins filled 'gainst um, surgry, whence
Aught thinnest fissure stands out in betrayl
Now I've a chance to take one look t'avail,
We'd see our breath if we exhale, fr'intents.
If cleaning house ere any rose as twere
Was worth the effort, we'll play dolls anew
"Fore breakfast, cuz a Saturday is fer
O, sleeping-in for her, and fun to do
This opportun'ty good. And coffee. Stir
Me to make toast while sipping Daddy's brew.
02Mar19
Mar 9, 2019
Mar 9, 2019 at 9:50 PM UTC