You know people have delivered babies in there
Probably even died
Yanking on the oversized roll of industrial toilet paper
Dispensed across every state line
Delivered by the truckers who pray for a titty flash on their way
Under the auspices of Arkansas
Somehow vaulted to an international comptroller of commerce
Of the destinies of families, employed or forced to shop there,
Or molding the plastic dreck Americans require in some foreign land,
Their necessary evil, or needed good.
And on that trip
Bowels working, oblivious to the outside anything
You have to make that stop, not wanting to, dreading it
And yet, like the world's cathedrals, it waits for you, with open arms
Pure white porcelain ready to receive your most animal of offerings
Whether you believe in evolution or not.
The question is there, though, do you know the good news?
Do you know the freedom that is ready for you,
As long as you're willing to chain yourself to the one path?
Sin passing out of you like yesterday's Froot Loops, bleached, sanitized
and three for nine today to nourish you again like loaves and fishes
Dispersed among the People of That Place
We're better than them, aren't we?
Wednesday, December 25, 2013
Sunday, December 15, 2013
It's Zappadan, that time of year between December 4 and December 21, when we gather together on the warm tendons strung between us (internets) to celebrate the life of Frank Vincent Zappa, delivered to us at precisely the right time, then taken too soon.
During the summer, I purchased this poster, which to me is sublime for a number of reasons:
1. The cheap Chroma-Key? background
2. The partly dead plants
3. Those shoes, which some stylish gent would covet nowadays
4. Peter Max socks
5. The jaunty neckerchief
6. Unapologetic smoking
7. Leopard-print Speedo flocked by generously untrimmed pubes
8. The smoky, sardonic glance
I'm sure there are more. Turned out, I procrastinated just long enough for the hanging up of this poster to coincide with Zappadan. Unintentional brilliance.
Anyway, because it's just for me and not for the prying eyes of others, I wanted to laminate it (so I could use tape to hang it on the back of my closet door, so that I could go in and look at it when I needed a laugh or confidence or courage or acceptance, so that I could gaze upon one whom I regard as a bodhisattva of sorts). For this, I'd need to hit the Christian bookstore, home of the thickest, cheapest plastic coating machine in the land (25 cents a foot! Thick!)
I strode into the Christian bookstore, thronged round by dogma, strode to the back of the store, past the homeschooling dreck, to the waiting, already warm laminator. Into its primed maw I thrust the raw image, sexual, hilarious, unflinching, using my ample body as a barrier between it and any virginal gazes. A few times, believers approached, yet the dark force of my will and determination must have turned them back. Finished, I cut the smooth plastic, rolled up the rock and roll, and headed to the register, where a predictably prim woman jockeyed competently. "Is that all?" she asked, her hand starting to unroll the edge. "YES, just one poster," I said, a little too loudly, moving it deftly back. I paid the 81 cents and left, heart beating faster.
If I'm truly the jaded rebel that I think I am, why did this feel so dangerous?
"Look here, brother, who you jivin' with that cosmik debris?" - FZ