Sunday, May 29, 2011

Once Upon a Time by Luis Rivas

Once Upon a Time

we were born wrapped in barbed wire
with pain so barbarous and ordinary that its memory
has been repressed by all guilty participants

only to be adequately replaced with brilliant, original
and new pain; the bum on the corner of laguna ave
and echo park that covers himself up to his head

to dull the cold nights, to block the blinding light of pain
or as drunken guatemalans are murdered for holding knives
off union and 6th (while americans, the less-colorful

kind, are honored as patriots for carrying rifles)
and as i pass by, my car’s rack and pinion needing
repairing and/or replacing, and as i try to remember

if i have enough money on my debit card to buy
cat food, wondering if the vons is still open
while my brothers think seriously on joining

the military, or if i will be able to find parking on
sunset blvd, beautiful, tall girls having taken all the spaces
coming from far off places like wisconsin, michigan

alabama; and myself, finding it hard on deciding
to be upset or not about this, each method of coping valid
it has been said, and there is proof, that once

upon a time i used to write about drinking wild
turkey, sex, loading and unloading fedex trailers and a
fashionable, romantic and poetic embrace of apathy

now, as i speak to you and as you hear me
staring at my lips, weighing out the value and
judging the content, i do not mention my father

and the dry, grey doctors manipulative maltreatment
of his back pain, leg pain, sleeplessness, anxiety
prescribing him the newest and most-expensive

most-addictive, higher-profit-margin narcotics
and you will not know that his company is moving to
mexico for a higher-profit-margin wage trade-of

the irony being that the company is leaving
the united states and its underpaid mexican workforce
for a cheaper-still, underpaid foreign mexican workforce

and as you question the art or lack thereof
believing the lie that words are spoken, that poetry
is found in books, on pages, in history, in magazines

on websites; that it’s spoken, sung, said, read, mouthed
recited, regurgitated; i look onto you and the
disillusionment in your eyes is profound and beautiful

Luis Rivas will be a guest on The Mandala of Infinite Prose and Philosophy
w/ Frankie Metro on June 8th, 2011. You can catch that here: www.blogtalkradio.com/frankie-metro

and while you're there, be sure to check out the show: I can't curse but I can read a f u c k i n poem, hosted by yr faithful editors Newamba Flamingo and Frankie Metro.

Tuesday, May 10, 2011

Fine Minds Fucked Here for a Quarter

12:00 AM:

Jersey Shore guidos mysteriously appear on public access television stations all over central portions of the Florida peninsula… They storm into televangelists’ churches, punch prostitute porking preachers in the jaw, and demand expedient returns to regularly scheduled programming. Sitcom laugh tracks blast as the guidos hurl Molotov cocktails at choirs, churchgoers, and pulpits alike and stained glass windows shatter against the touch of churning hurricanes.

Screen slowly turns to snow…

Cameras swirl fade back into a white padded room with a faint static hum buzzing in the background:

An Ostrich-necked librarian in combat boots felches a heavily tattooed, googley-eyed Guatemalan man who resembles a walrus and desperately clutches onto his whimpering French poodle…

The camera pans up to a skylight and tracks a lost flock of birthday balloons drifting away into the foggy night. Scene fades to grey.


11:55 PM:

The library is all but closed on this midnight eve, so the make-believe telemarketers who hallucinate this peculiar psychosis brutally (but willingly) fistfuck my high school principal in the alley behind that Papa John’s in Tampa where the marquee overhead reads: "Fine Minds Fucked Here for a Quarter"

Don’t ask what Papa does to the garlic sauce dip…

1:58 AM

The adjacent street glows; its light refracts down the corridors and chasms of Cranial Boulevard where marijuana trees sprout from truck stop hookers’ vaginas; a triceratops in 1970s disco clothing has jackhammered and planted several of these hookers upside down, head first into the sidewalk in sequential, horizontal rows, their legs parted spread eagle; he has impregnated them with cannabis plants that have swiftly taken root and now claw towards the sky…

The Herestads are the disco triceratops’ enemy. They (the Herestads) have the swine flu, and, in fact, are responsible for the entire swine flu epidemic and make light of your suffering (or potential suffering) from it. Herestads hop on pogo sticks and taunt and laugh at you from the bellies of their homes; they snicker at you as you sleep in your beds, open your refrigerators, and shoo boogeymen and baboons away from your closets; their coke mirrors are portals to Hawaii; their leather couches are homicidal and fitted with submachine gun systems. (These same couches have turbo prop engines and can fly and kill any remaining dinosaurs living in your attic, basement, or garden shed.)

The Harestads’ fractured frontal lobes have been embedded with an obtuse oblivion, which houses casings of apocalyptic socialist rebellions that are calmly exorcised by tarot readers; these embeddings also repress the Herestads’ true malicious tendencies of somnambulism and allow them the impunity to inflict back alley root canals on alligator face elementary school janitors and bestiality porn addicts. (Illegal root canals usually do soothe and placate most incipient somnambulist malfunctions.)

Rival street gangs of Harestads steal WiFi internet signals from coffeehouses and apartment buildings and broadcast bulletins of live streaming footage from roller skate rink crash sites where they jokingly lay with their mouths open and genitals exposed, ramming Gigantic American Cocksus Verbatuses up their own rectums in some sort of retribution that isn’t totally clear.

(The Gigantic American Cocksus Verbatus is a 23 inch dick, which has all sorts of large veins, painted various shades of red, white, and blue, and has decorative stars aligning the base and tip; failed American Idol contestants and IHOP waitresses often summon its comatose voodoo, and occasionally it’s worn as a strap on by a woman with a top hat and long flowing grey beard who claims she is cousins with Napoleon the Fourth: She warns Napoleon desperately wishes to inspect all property and zoning laws before buying a timeshare in your tornado prone neighborhood…

The bearded woman tweets that she plans to crash through your living room wall, jump up from the floor, and squeeze her floppy tits together, belch, and then get up in your face and shout:

"Your mouth's lawn better be trimmed and the grassroots better be sweet and clipped. Turn on the sprinklers, Sam! This one's got a dry mouth and I need lubrication.”

2:47 AM:
Ice trucker named Tomungo maimed from bathroom wombat attack; beats his iPhone against his head and speaks, err, records, this diary entry-

“I am here at the library while the Herestads sleep snugly with their soapboxes and televisions, and Cocksus probing (Verbatim) their throats for possible propaganda, so they can be declared Enemies of the State and have their teeth removed.”

"America loves a Gummer."


3:12 AM-
Billybob the opossum hunter runs naked through the streets of Tampa, waggles his short, stubby penis at oncoming traffic, and mumbles the following into an uncharged cell phone:

“They seek traitors while I psychosomatically search racks of books in the library on Cranial Blvd. It is a homely abode; full of mysteries and romance, full of metaphysical jargon; a particular volume on the study of brain waves and the direct effect of radio signals on the untapped root of telepathy and kinesis should be interesting!”

Hypothesis: Perhaps it is possible many synapses of the brain are in tune somehow with electrical currents outside one’s body- i.e. a disturbance of the electrical field that surrounds the body in motion or rest is displaced by the induction of radio signals in its environment. My approach is that synapses of the brain fire off small electrical sparks that can be intercepted and transferred through the constant and undying motion of energy itself. Therefore, it would seem almost feasible that these synapses and neurons could send thoughts from one person to another, in a different country, different city, different field and stage of mental growth. Since impregnated cognitive waves become intertwined with recyclable forces of energy, our thought processes can be directly affected by those of the past, present and possibly the future. This would eliminate the ideal of 'original thought' and replace it with a re-adjusted concept.


A bicycle mounted police officer in hot pants pops a wheelie and clubs Billybob over the head. Billybob collapses to the ground with a massive head wound, writhing in pain. The cop picks up Billybob’s cell phone from off the street, puts his ear up to it, and hears a strange frequency hiss out of the phone… The phone then shoots a bright blue electrical bolt at the cop, incinerating him to ashes…

Billybob levitates up from the ground, hovers in the air, points at the cop’s remains and says, in an Australian accent-


“And my brain is swimming, barely over the water filling up around it. On a rainy night the windows are barred from inside the library, but you can still make out red-flashing lights from the marquee overhead; its presence shines brightly on the cracked linoleum floor.”

"Linoleum floor in the middle of a library?" asks a flamboyant homosexual twirling nunchucks, riding by on a unicycle…

“This is no library, but a mind's toilet bowl!” responds Billybob.


Fine Minds Fucked Here for a Quarter!


4:20AM, Exxon Station, Tampa, Florida:

There he stands, Napoleon the Fourth, heir to the estate. He has a glass eye, long, braided blue beard, and wears a beige frilly sleeveless ball gown, fishnet stockings, fuck me pink pumps, and tattered raspberry beret.

Napoleon the Fourth is the Revolution’s true descendent. He is not pleased that his colony of Haiti is in rubble.

Napoleon: I had planned to return and conquer. Damn their pack with the devil! I would have turned that place into a three dollar library, and charged for dildo sessions and water balloon tricks! How's your head feeling today, my son?

His son, a lazy-eyed dwarf in a bright orange spandex jumpsuit and star-spangled trench coat reeking of coconut, retorts:

"Waterweight. But let's stick to the facts here, pops. Where can I find books on the possibilities of telepathy and telekinesis? Where can I find books on civil oppression? Where can I find books on the formation of our brave constitution, and reaming it has endured at the paws of a small French poodle named Primp, which I hear has been kidnapped by a heavily tattooed, walrus-like Guatemalan man? Where can I fin.."

Napoleon: Easy, my son. All minds are fucked and fucked alike. Accordingly. Follow me.

He extends his right arm and points at the library. Napoleon’s beard is crusted with sperm, and he swears it is his own.

Napoleon sparks a mangled cigar, which has been hollowed out and filled with marijuana grown from truck stop hooker vagina. He coughs up light grey smoke and then says derisively, "The common American whore doesn't know how to turn off sprinklers, so I was showered in my own children. Can you believe such a thing?"

They walk past a boarded up pawn shop, and Napoleon’s son shakes his arms around violently at an empty phone booth and yells out that he’s got a sudden urge to locate a volume of scientific studies on gangrene or an anthology of Khalil Gibran’s poetry. Preferably both.

Napoleon: His name is never brought up here. That bastard started the Haitian revolution. He co-signed the pact with the devil, and I owe him many francs.

4:37 AM:

Napoleon and son each hoist metal garbage cans into the air and use these garbage cans to bash in the glass front door of Tampa’s Congressional Library.

After walking in through the battered doorway, they look to the back of the library, which doubles at night as a brothel, and then proceed to the reference section, where all manner of prostitution lies.

The reference section is full of fat, beastly, bleach blond whores in skimpy miniskirts who are spread out on long elaborate sofa beds. The whores have cooked the first and latest editions of Burroughs’ Naked Lunch over a Hibachi, and they sit with their forks ready, ambling to chow down.

Napoleon: Good evening, you dogs! How much bread you got for Poppa Nap today?

The whores scamper like chimpanzees, climb up to the tops of the bookshelves, recoil in horror and sing in Greek chorus:
"Times are hard, daddy! And the streets is too cold outside for them to have their supper. Everyone went home to have their gaping mouths probed for food and sex. What's his name?"

Napoleon blasts pepper spray at them and yells out,
"It's of no importance. Back to work, you common slunks!"

(A “slunk” was aptly pointed out and defined to various Ouija board operators who spoke with Burroughs’ brain waves. The Ouija boards operators say the “slunk” is a type of undesirable cow fetus. How these prostitutes evolved from cow fetuses is hotly debated amongst the transvestite senators and astronauts that make up the silent majority of Burroughs’ fan base.)

Napoleon and son strip naked and continue on to the right wing of the Library where they come across a large steel cage. Napoleon pulls a jar of olive oil from out of his ass and begins to grease himself up with it.

"Excuse me," Napoleon says, as a large green foam microphone drops from the ceiling.

Star Trek Scotty beam up teleportation devices beam in crowds of Amish farmers, strange religious cult members clad in hooded black robes, reality show rejects, and snarly old men in overalls who slobber and scarf down handfuls of heavily buttered popcorn. The masses swarm in swiftly and instantly fill the library to capacity…

Napoleon: Ladies and Gentleman! Slunks and Herestads! Artisans of all types and creeds! Welcome to the main event of the evening! In this ring, weighing all of 1236 pounds, hailing from the teenage vampire plagued mountains of Washington, we have the Bolgia Brothers! (canned applause blasts from the library’s intercom) The Bolgia Brothers!

The brothers, both eight foot tall, portly Sasquatches, have suddenly been beamed into the left corner of the cage; they feign pure maddened horror at their predicament; they sob, blubber, and hold hands with each other…

The crowd roars with appeasement as a spontaneous spotlight shines on the brothers’ faces…

Napoleon: Next, we have the mouth of the GOP, current radio host, and former opiate addict, Rush Limbaugh!

Limbaugh, in a wrestler’s singlet with cut out crotch, scales the left wall of the cage and jumps down into center ring...

Applause, scattered boos, and sardonic laughter erupts from the crowd at Limbaugh’s entrance.

Napoleon: Rush! Limbaugh!

Limbaugh bows to the crowd, and then reverts into a yoga position and tongues his testicles like a dog…

Napoleon: Next, he is the most brutal mouth on television today…
Current host and founding member of the 700 Club, renowned and informed TV journalist, Pat Robertson!!

Robertson repels in via rope from a gaping opening in the invisible domed ceiling.

There is a slow Haitian hiss that falls over the arena, and Napoleon’s son tries to look away and locate that Khalil Gibran book he’d had been searching for, but the Robertson’s presence is far too mesmerizing.

Robertson stands to the right corner of the cage stone faced; his stomach is distended and he has the posture of a giraffe and appears to possess the strength of an elephant as he stomps his left foot around.

Robertson: Fuck you America! There be no Lord-bashing tonight! This is my time! I've got God on my side, and blood will be on my hands before this night is through! You hear me, you ignorant wretches?!

Inside the cage various weapons are strewn about. A crowbar here, an axe there, plastic black dildos with rubber battery replacements lay scattered all about the mat…

Robertson picks up an axe and sneers at Limbaugh. Limbaugh grabs a crowbar, points it towards the brothers. The brothers shriek and shit themselves in terror, fumble around, and then bravely assume Danielson Karate Kid crane kick positions.

A feverish delirium overtakes the audience. Foam spews forth from their mouths, and they scream out curse words, heave popcorn and drinks wantonly, and some in the crowd even pull out flaccid penises and piss in the direction of the cage…

Napoleon: You know the rules gentleman. This is America and there are no rules! Not here in Tampa’s Cranial Blvd Congressional Library! No, all minds are fucked and fucked alike! Speaking of which…

Napoleon turns to his son and asks, "You got your quarter for entry?"

To which his son pensively replies, "No, I thought this was home of the free and fucked alike..."