UNCLE RANDY
poetry and pranks
before the next ritual bridge burning
will before long say goodbye to plant compagnons
a little finch comes near to whiff of the stone roses
will before long say goodbye to louisiana’s unseasonable warmth
that or the finch wants a drag or a swig of prosecco
i dont know
im just a permanent uncle
with a gargantuan family
will before long say goodbye to friendlings
the long tall shorties
those that have blown out nary a birthday flame
may god guide them well when ive no longer the pleasure
ive been a transplant down here
a vagabond epiphyte enjoying old live oak country
but
i cant kid me any longer
can I
I must plier baggage
and ply my wordly trade
in outlandish latitudes and longitudes
I will write
pips and blips
and pipping blips
and postcards that can be geolocated
not by the photos that adorn the front
but by the time they take to arrive aux destinataires
my long interval of fruitful sanity
must go to seed
i let pandemic
nail me to this cross of stability
mais je ne me berne pas
je sais ô trop bien
comment ce laps de paix
n’est que le calme qui précède la prochaine tempête
qui ne peut que se déchainer sur un monde de pauvres cons
(dont je me veux plutôt victor que victime).
i woke up in new york
last night
and i dont know why
ambling about a big square
like i make my tiny rounds in the city park
of the poco nueva iberia
i was accosted by a fellow errant soul
who say me for a gullible john
my sleeping soul is of pelvish temperament
and thus went along for the ride
tant pis va le refrain
the rest is mystery
as i woke up
to an alarm clock that rang for two hourly minutes
before I bid it stop
i then early morning dreamt of an island
where all these clocks are banished
to ring away like the refuse they are
i see my uncle Steve a plenty recently
deceased since a few years
i dont know why (not why he is gone, but why him that I behold?)
i have so few answers for so many questions
maybe a 15 min reading can learn me (this is sarcasm yes sir)
he is still thick but less so (time moves like an ambrosial molasses within the pearly gates)
but he is mirthful and chatty
death seems to bother him not
i see my recently passed grandfather less
but he must still be a fledgling
mama said
i can add it up
upon arrival
that makes for a tireless, blue cheese free
cheese plate
life happens in every nook and granny
no one way about it
sprout it out loud in
cloud clods
that make sky hiking
a buffet with truffles and no trifles
but for those who are barely with me
it, that’s mornin’
i come bearing no gifts
(mis?) taking myself for enough.
what have you i say
time is a gift, no?
and i give so little to anyone but
my own bountiful behind
this begs the Q
shall i wrap it?
tis be
my first xmas
with my xgrandfather
what a sullen sorrow
though i be gladdened
that he be one with creator
i know more and more
each year
that people go for good
it aint no good
but their going aint end all be all
and that it be our fault
for not breaking bread with the dead
ouverture de la bouche
serait un geste de solidarité
si on arrivait à se faufiler par cette bouche éteinte.
walk with me cidney
aint it nothing that you can get your hands around
maya my my
tell me something that i need ta know
omniscient gobs grow bored in their terminal fullness
god plays dumb till the yugas come undone
the shaggs play lao tseu
and pull off the accent too
chop chop this porky poem
as the chef sees best
bets get off on the betters
i teach children about buddhism
but my hands are tied
when id like to teach them
about cobainesque nirvana
the wheel of samsara
runs me down so foul like
tarot a word for the future
which is so present like in
all its ways and byways
sore.y.
i talk shit only to expurgate
from my constipated pores
livestream poetry will always be as insufferable
as any other kind
readings, typewriter shit on commands,
AI vomitoriums
you get the jism gist
poetry
must be born in horrified back alley
or
mountain-top lofts
and left at death or dismissal’s door
or so ive learned.
kids now say smash or pass
good job us.
black or white robs us of the subtleties of smoke.
i do not write to mass produce
and i fear that anything made in terrible earnest
be turned to some simple dollar churning end
id rather be poor and rich in my sprawlings
than rich in my pocket and poor in artistic endeavors
but this is i know, the language of a hobo
this is the last of the last
the unholiest of the holies
undone tumbled broeken sums
curl and crumble up in dumpster families
waiting on godlets to refurbish the tidbits
i can go only one fucking direction
despite all my toilet teacup readings
a val-de-loire frenchwoman once lamented how unfortunate it was
that i grew up to cobain
and that i couldnt perceive the precious listenability of Dylan
ah well.
i like dylan covered
and cobain raw as a sunburn without sunscreen
there’s not going any direction but onwards
even if my writing goes on writing shit on mona lisas
id still rather, id still rather
but im not eco-bozo
i wish not to elmers myself to a work of art
that is not mine own
im a monkey
eastranged
frm
factory farmed opinions
pfthew
is th sound of ground nouns
oh noh
sumpiternal
uncle randy drinks himself slumped
stumped
ezra pounded
or pisspass would sayeth the dumbkins
Ottocorrect blakjaks the back o’ my nek
and i lern how to fll in lin
thnx godds
sumthin tlls my notiness
to die and let off
i bear cocteau and satie dreams
of being able to sing in seductive concision
the pop hits of truth
where what is missing hits like a ton of jonathan poorman gravity
he’s always straight
gravity
but i dont wnat to take his place
and then
there is the cuckulated, calculated violence
of iggy and kurt
that make one
want to split tiredness in tiers
and go off grid
im a broken record
but at least i only
play hte bst
oh not me