The writings of Oddpoet

I like shiny things, I'm very superficial.

“To be or not to be” Any of you Dudes out here truly know what ques­tion the Bard asks?
Well, not many peo­ple think about mor­tal­ity. Don’t blame them.
Back to “The Bard” six words that defines the nature or essence of our existence.

I am the only jerk off, I think, who will call God a Dick­weed! Just did it, not smited yet, (guess that comes later)

Any­way, I go to Heaven, and there is God, drool­ing and snor­ing on his recliner, remote on the floor, a Hus­tler mag on his lap.

So I wake the fucker up.

“God, wake the fuck up, your “Cre­ation” is in dire need of your omnipo­tent services.”

Well, the fuck snores away, well on the 7^th day he rested. I did not take that to mean a fuck­ing per­ma­nent vaca­tion. I am forced to slap his fuck­ing noggin!

Well, I did and he finally wakes up, thun­der, light­ning the whole show!

The Archangels have blades drawn on my throat and even those fag­got Cherubs are bit­ing my ass. Cause I pissed him off.

“Poet”, he says, as he wipes the droll from his lips, “did I not kill you? Or, at the very least, it has to be on my things to do list.”

Well, that did not give me a warm and fuzzy.

“God, Ulti­mate Dude of Dudes, A lit­tle help is needed on earth.”

“Poet! Ass­hole, The only rea­son you exist is because you are a funny fuck!
Don’t push it BABE!” “And, being omnipo­tent, I bequeathed, free will upon ye. Which, ulti­mately means…You’re on your own.”

“God! Alpha and Omega, hear me out Dude. I under­stand the free will con­cept; but, maybe some guid­ance, a mir­a­cle here and there.”

“It’s a mir­a­cle you are still alive!”

“I know God, Emperor of all Cre­ation, I am an ass­hole, freely given. But how bout some mir­a­cles! Maybe cure every child suf­fer­ing from can­cer under… say 12?”

Must have struck a chord, because I could see his Divin­ity thinking.

I took the time to sur­rep­ti­tiously kick one of those fag­got bit­ing Cherubs in the groin. I swear if God was not there I would have kicked all those lit­tle fuck’s asses

“Poet, I see your point. But I hes­i­tate to inter­fere with Human­ity. Free Will I have ordained”

“I dig it, Big Chief of the Uni­verse, But Satan’s run­ning ram­pant on earth, war, dis­ease, famine and Repub­li­cans have been run­ning the show!”

“REPUBLICANS!!!!!!” I could see the big guy was upset; how­ever, he continued.

“I see your plight Poet, but free will rules the day. I can not inter­fere and that is final!”

“God, head hon­cho, think I can get in to see JC?”

“Poet, you are very close to being dead! get out of here. You are not com­ing here any­way!” “Nor can you expect an invi­ta­tion in the future.”

See­ing that I was out­num­bered, and the fact that he was right.…and.…. God did not give a fuck. I was ush­ered, not too kindly, I might add, from Heaven, And Poof I am here.

Gee, aren’t you lucky. Well, think­ing of a way I can cru­cify myself. Got the wood, know I can nail my left hand to the cross, the prob­lem is hav­ing, said, left hand nailed, I am unable to nail my right hand to the cross! Which requires me to plea for help!

Ring.….…..

“Hello” “Ehhh.….Don, I need a hand.“
“Poet…watts up, Dude!”
“Don, I need a hand.”

“What?“
“I am try­ing to cru­cify myself and I need a hand.”

“Christ, Poet are you into one of your to be or not to be moods?” “Fuck you!” Click.….

dial tone…

Well.…That IS the question

Wheeled…
Strapped to a char­iot of the infirm
The clank­ing of ungreased wheels
Play dis­cor­dant sounds over the well worn anti­sep­tic linoleum

Faces of Nor­malcy
Dis­play­ing well prac­ticed smiles
Feign­ing heartrend­ing concern

Flu­o­res­cent lights
Flash strobe like
Reveal­ing motion in stac­cato relief
Kalei­do­scope fig­ures move with furtive intent
Pulling strings attached to vials of phar­ma­ceu­ti­cal salvation

They con­trol the mar­i­onettes of the damned
They orches­trate the dance of the mutants
Legs dance, con­torted, painful
Bod­ies bent at impos­si­ble angles
The Mutants move to the inces­sant demands of the strings
Their faces scream their hope­less­ness
Jux­ta­posed with silent resignation

The audi­ence laughed and applauded
Such funny mar­i­onettes
For who can not help but laugh
At the dance of the mutants

Dead peo­ple are a real bum­mer, espe­cially when the fuck­ers owes you money. I remem­ber Richie had the gall to up and die whilst owing me $100.00, the fucker. Being freshly dead he was not yet pack­aged; so I make a bee line over to his crib­bage to check the thing out, you know to see if he was try­ing to get out of his debt. You’d be amazed the lengths peo­ple will go to get out of pay­ing me.

So I bust in and there is the perquisite mourn­ers cir­cle and there was Ritchie who was no longer Richie. And my $100.00 was no longer my $100.00 so I take a shot and start rifling through Richie’s pock­ets. Too late Aunt Sophie beat me too it. The bitch was a big­ger thief than Ritchie. The circle’s eyes widen in hor­ror as I start punch­ing Ritchie’s corpse and then they start scream­ing, all except Aunt Sophie, the bitch. I turned to them all pissed off and say: “What am I doing… hurt­ing his feel­ings? The fuck­ers dead!”

So I book and start think­ing about death.
I’m like every­one else; I don’t want to think about it. Death is like the fart in Church, no one wants to admit it’s there but we all can smell it.

The prob­lem with death is it reminds us that we will all even­tu­ally be strapped to that one man seat. Death is the ulti­mate one man show, no sup­port­ing acts, strictly solo. We are so frigged about death we want to get rid of the body as soon as possible:

“Get that frig­gin stiff outta here!”
“But Ward! It’s the Beaver.”
“I don’t give a shit June, tell Wally to drag it out to the garage and call those Under­taker creeps.’

Under­tak­ers– Nice name– I use to think Sur­geons were fucked up peo­ple but Under­tak­ers got them beat. Yea some­thing def­i­nitely creepy about a voca­tional choice involv­ing dead peo­ple. “How do you make a living?”

The first Under­tak­ers were fam­ily who washed and cleaned the stiff and pre­pared for the rit­ual mourn­ing of the dead. You had to make it quick, things can get smelly. The prob­lem was no one was sure if the per­son was really, really dead. I mean it looks dead, but…

That was the prob­lem, his­tory is replete with sto­ries of the dead com­ing back to life and a uni­ver­sal fear that is cross cul­tural is being buried alive. That will keep you up at night might even stop you from dying.

The first Under­tak­ers were Fred and Ernie. They vol­un­teered since they had no life and no one wanted the dead end job. The first order of busi­ness was to estab­lish was it dead? So the slap test was devel­oped.
“You want to take first shift Ernie?”
So Ernie starts slap­ping the shit out of the corpse.
“Seems dead”
Fred starts slap­ping the shit out of the corpse.
“Sucker is dead to me”
“We got to be sure this time can’t have a repeat of last Sat­ur­day”
“Old man Grady get­ting out of the cof­fin was not a good career fuzzy”
Luck­ily Aunt Martha had a heart attack so they could at least have a wake.”
“Yea, the keg was already tapped would have been a shame to waste it.”

That was the prob­lem and it was Fred who had the solu­tion.
“Eureka! Be right back!”
Fred gets a shop vac and evac­u­ates the corpse’s bod­ily flu­ids
Ernie’s eyes widen in amaze­ment.
Ernie’s riffs on Fred’s insight.
“We can put Uncle Bob’s spe­cial sauce in the stiff”
“What’s in it?”
“I think formalde­hyde, methanol, ethanol and a whole bunch of nasty.”

They did it! If the sucker wasn’t dead before it was now and the stiff keeps for at least a week. The mod­ern day Wake party was born. And we owe it all to Fred and Ernie.

Now leave me alone and stop mak­ing me think about this shit. I hate think­ing about death.

Think I’ll watch a hor­ror flick… Cool, George Romero’s “Night of the Liv­ing Dead” works for me…

The devil wind blew through town
All cool and shit like a Sina­tra tune
Snap­ping fin­gers and jazz ass jive
Sat­ur­na­lia wild­ness on the street
Peo­ple want­ing their share
Of the cool
Of smooth moves
Of three car garages
And tro­phy wives



Drunken women
With too much makeup
Who laugh too hard
And too easy
Forc­ing swollen feet
Into glass slip­pers
Need­ing the hum
Of elec­tric Princes
Amped
Promis­ing king­doms of plated fool’s gold



Every­one felt that cool breeze
The fools became wise
Spew­ing half remem­bered lies



The cig­a­rette smoke haze played like heav­enly mist.
We all pre­tended our lives were real
We danced in that clouds of nico­tine
To the syn­co­pated beat of Devil Wind induced mad­ness.



For some
There was no pas­sion in the script
We couldn’t pre­tend any­more



The band never gave up pre­tend­ing.
Throw­ing trills our way.
Wear­ing shades in the dead of night
Always laugh­ing at the joke we never got.



Our fake smiles hurt our faces



It was the plague
Dis­guised as cool
Death masked as glory
The chill of the grave
We began to die



Musi­cians were the first to go
We had lit­tle time left
We wanted to dance
The plague was upon us
We wanted to suck the mar­row
Out of Life’s bones.
But there was no one left to play



The Devil Wind blew through town
And man it was cold…

Guin­e­vere
Lay beside me
Let us lie upon sil­ver clouds
Hud­dled in Blan­kets of rain­bow
Bathe in essen­tial starlight
Each point of light diaphanous­ness por­tals
To what never was
But might yet come to pass
Where this bit­ter world does not exist
Where tears are never shed
Each new day a mys­tery
An unopened present
A child’s con­tented heart



Guin­e­vere
Do not speak
Words are clumsy use­less con­structs
The mere cack­ling of crows
Let the quick­en­ing of our hearts
And the trem­bling of our flesh
Sing our song



Let angelic choirs sing rhap­sodic coun­ter­point
Let the mae­stros of yore
play celes­tial instru­ments
Shak­ing the heav­ens
In thun­der­ous melody
Where even the dour Gods smile and nod
Know­ingly



Guin­e­vere
I am lost in your eyes
Falling help­lessly to an essen­tial core
The eye of the storm
The cen­ter of all things
I am no longer who I was
Merg­ing, meld­ing, blend­ing
Into some­thing new
Dis­tinct
Pure
What never existed before
Yet older than the ancient bones of Gaia



Guin­e­vere
Your name is the soft caress of a mid­night breeze
A glo­ri­ous spring day
A gen­tle rain that suc­cors parched earth
A balm that heals a bro­ken heart



Guin­e­vere…
Guin­e­vere…
Guin­e­vere…



A sin­gle tear rolls down my cheek
It is my gift to you

Sitting here

smok­ing filters

feel­ing disconnected

And…

Find myself on a

city street walking

feel­ing my age

won­der­ing when the color went out of the world

where all the magic went

Met this junk yard dog

our eyes met

and we both agreed

we were all pretty much

Fucked

He told me

Gold­man Sachs and Citibank

are a pri­or­ity for the flu vaccine

I told him

uni­ver­sal health care

will never be passed

we both agreed

we were all pretty much

Fucked

I said if food deliv­er­ies to markets

stopped for 30 days

we’d all be cannibals

he said

the home­less

will soon out­num­ber the sheltered

we both agreed

we were pretty much

Fucked

He said

vio­lence, ter­ror, injustice

are accepted

expected

nor­mal

I told him

a man is now judged

by what he has

Not

what he holds in his heart

We both agreed we were all pretty much

Fucked

A man came out of a shack

mid­dle aged

an air

of morose bitterness

of too many

unful­filled yesterdays

walked towards us

and kicked the junk yard dog

“Get off your ass and look mean you mangy mutt”

“what am I feed­ing you for?”

the junk yard dog

winced

wagged his tail

and looked at the man lovingly

The man eyed me suspiciously”

“What your selling”

“we ain’t buying”

and walked just out of view

The junk yard dog looked at me sheepishly

“He don’t mean it

I know he loves me”

The junk yard dog

his ribs show­ing through his

unkempt coat

walked away

a bro­ken growl

sound­ing more like a moan

painted the sky slate gray

I walked away…

in search of the miss­ing Sun