Archive for June, 2010


Posted in Jason Ryberg with tags on June 4, 2010 by Scot


The weather channel is showing
highly detailed satellite imagery
of impending meteorological doom

(while various other sources are warning
of a new ice age (and a giant meteor
thrown in, to boot))

and the street corner preacher (in chorus
with his whole in-bred family and entourage)
says “GOD HATES FAGS!” (which makes me wonder
what He/She/It  must think about rogue investment bankers,
government torturers, sowers of paranoia and discord
masquerading as journalists or porn-addicted poets,
for that matter).

Even the usually reliable Magic Eight Ball
says “it doesn’t look good” and, apparently,

our current (and wildly popular (if not so
genuinely populist)) Republican vice-
presidential candidate enjoys shooting wolves
from helicopters, firing librarians for refusing
to ban “objectionable” books and believes dinosaurs
roamed the earth six thousand years ago (really,
should this person have access
to the nuclear codes?).

But the lost boys and the strippers
and the third shift factory workers and EMT’s
are finishing up their nightly routines
and are all just waiting to get off work
and head over to Cooper’s for a drink.

Thank God someone in this city
of a hundred and thirty-one homicides
(this year, and climbing)
is open at 6AM.

But what was it the old boy with the cowboy hat
and Wally Walrus moustache was saying, just then;
something about the “Philosophick Mercury” or
“Grand Quintessence” as “cosmological constant,”
or something?

We can probably assume there used to be
competing schools of thought set up
to address those and other pressing issues of the day
and that there surely must be remnants of their descendants
left in the universities and non-partisan think tanks
here in our own uncertain age.

Or, maybe, when confronted
with the various cultural/quasi-intellectual
bogeys and conundrums of the modern world
we should all just step back and calmly review
the situation and maybe think about renewing
ours vows to our estranged lover or spouse,

that He or She (or whoever in between)
of Reason and Critical Thinking,
sitting all alone at the end of the bar,
nose in a book, sipping on a soda with lime;

the one who keeps looking at you
from time to time out of the corner of their eye,
maybe even stealing a full-on glance
when they’re sure you’ve turned away.

How is it you don’t remember them
looking so damned good;
so fit, so linear and clean?

Not like the sad, flabby menagerie of crazies
and bar-whores of hysteria and misinformation
you’ve been truck-stopping  around with, lately.

How did things ever degenerate
to this sorrowful state?

How did we get conned into believing
we’re born fallen and fully deserving of a life
(and eternal afterlife) of suffering?

How do we get fooled again
and again and again into laboring
against our own best interests

and thinking that we ever had
anything to gain from killing
each other over the disputes
of kings, priests
and CEOs?

John Dorsey

Posted in John Dorsey, VIDEOS with tags on June 3, 2010 by Scot

Nightmusic by MP Powers

Posted in M.P. Powers with tags , on June 2, 2010 by Scot

On a dingy corner across from the Moulin Rouge, this little beautiful madam takes my hand and draws me into the sadistic darkness of her strange ambrosial cave. S’asseoir.” I sit down on a fat sofa. “Something to drink, monsieur?” “Heineken, please…” Smoke tingles in a soft blaze of soiled lights, walls aquiver. A big, buxom African whore in clinging semitransparent lingerie moves under the chanting red globes. Something  begins to diminish. The decomposing dribble of a moment jiggles via the infallible hands of timelessness, perhaps?

Here, the dead have dressed up in their oral traditions, god plays grim his violin, light fails, and the prostitutes hit the floor, shoving precisely though the pushandpull of orchestral despair, their bounding feet transfigured on a steep current of swollen logic. It sits at the end of some foreign tongue, volumes of dirty eroticism slowly expanding until the keen queen-of-all-kings coyly emerges. She hurls a handful of lilacs on the floor, spits, and as she begins pouncing on them with her happy jouncing feet, I observe the glad awful screaming of her profane flesh; the sweaty waves of palpitating flab among whose largeness even oblivion would be feign to blush. My beer arrives, green and glowing. It’s handed to me by some Turkish pimp of the dime-a-dozen kind, donned in large white collars and a black bullying blazer stuffed with shoulders, his gold tooth and earrings emitting sharp glints from the hellish neon, his face a dull retching of perfect
evil, like a serpent, or a toadstool. His loafer slightly pronounces itself, he pirouettes, one arm does a fat sweeping gesture, and the big African whore descends upon me, pink drink in hand. The pimp nods, nods again. “For the lady,” he says. “Merci…” she says. “On me?” I ask.

But he’s gone.

A cloud of silence covers her face. Immense, beautiful, perfectly insipid. She takes a sip from the straw. Two hungry thighs squirm before me and she unleashes her top. She cups the roundness of her heaving breasts and gives them a good upward squeeze, lets go. Plunk. Then her fingers find my thighs and I feel like all the others, hooked in the gill, waiting to be dragged along the wake and then eaten. The room spins its fuzzy red syllables. A purple curtain parts. A man in a cape begins to sob. Or sing. Or something. And I am the man in the cape. I have no home. Just this perverse little cave of a room, in my soul, or across from the Moulin Rouge, where a purple curtain closes, and gods play grim their violins.