Rang Tang Ding Dong (The Japanese Sandman)

Who are you?
I am the Japanese sandman.
You looky like the Japanese Sandman.
Uh, he goes, uh- rang tang ding dong
ah say dilly wah
ah rang tang ding dong
ah say dilly wah
ah rang tang ding dong
ah say dilly way
ah rang tang ding dong ding
i am the Japanese sandman from across the sea
I got all the girls a-lovin' me
I am the Japanes sandman and I know I'm great
I follow behind all the playboy's rules
I am the Japanese sandman from across the sea
Hey, all you babies, pay attention to me
I wear a pin stripe jacket made of funky foo yang
Polka dot shoes made of yang and sang
I got a mean beret from my ring tang
Burgundy pants from my own needle shanks
I am the Japanese sandman from across the sea
Hey, all you babies, pay attention to me

-by The Cellos

Life On The Line

I recently took up a position at a telephone fundraising company in LA. Don’t get me wrong, this is a job that I would never in a million years choose to do but in light of recent financial hardships I really don’t have a choice. On the basis of the confidentiality agreement I signed I wont divulge the name of the company. Its too bad really because had I been able to say there exact name and location I would have thought up all sorts of lies and fabrications to make this new World Wide Dirt feature more entertaining.

That said everything following is the truth.

People care more about animals than other people. Charities raising money for the protection and treatment of animals are far easier to raise funds for than say The NAACP or ACLU. Can’t say I disagree. About half of people are assholes, about a forth of dogs.

A lot of people customize their answering machines with poems. One today ended with ‘and birds with broken wings don’t fly.’ It said something else but I was too busy thinking about all the places I’d rather be.

It’s easier to pretend your dead than say your not interested.

Someone ate all the free Ramen in the cupboard but no one thought it necessary to clean the carpets.

Evidently I don’t know the abbreviation for Nebraska.

George Bush thinks that the best way for teens not to have babies is not to have sex.

Civil rights are the most important thing on earth, more important than honesty, so important that we will scam all the old people to get it…all the old people.

Ok, if powers that be find out I’m lampooning their efforts I may be killed, this may be it.

_.l.. ..l._

Rats on easter do their best to not be eager,
or shiver in the endless winter, most comb
most kill, most seek all sorts of thrills we-
eping, changing, in losing effort fucking so
brainy, oh swell of summers windless wa
ining, sledge head master shed runner, wi
th all dead souls on the master mast, die
Cast pierce mummy fuck all crusted out a
nd all dried up each thrusting breaking for
mal train. I’m dead and just from knowing
. lolita lets not get crazy, im an older me s
o full of maiming, though long ago we turn
ed a pigeons wing to cinnnamon spelled wr
ong then righted, its time for this old man to
get the fuck out of town, his welcome is ov
er stayed and almost utmost over done well
done i friend some people have all the luck.

the Other day

there are some things I like to do.
I like to rock and roll with you.
I like it when the band plays funk
and we have champagne in the trunk.

I like to ride on red eye trains
and stir my drinks with candy canes.
I like to see you now and then
on a scale of ninety, you're a ten.

I like to write you silly poems
and outlet shop for mustache combs.
I like the air around your lips
and your profile in an eclipse.

I like to like to like your heart.
when I see the end, I'll seethe start.
I like to think of you and me
and all the things that start with 't'.

it gives me a comfort in this empty void of existence that 16 million people tuned in to an hour of poetry last thursday at 9/8 central when Lost premiered its fourth season over the airwaves. it's a new show now: a new premise, a new story, a new way of telling the story, amazing invention that still preserves the characters that have been so carefully and gracefully detailed during the last three years. Lance Reddick from The Wire is an amazing and intense actor who played the bad ass and mysterious Matthew Abaddon in Hurley's flash forward. Ana Lucia's old partner is off put by the coincidence of arresting a man who was on the plane with her and he displays this frightening uncertainty that all the characters are adopting on the show. nobody seems to have a clue what is happening and things are sliding out of control fast. the only one who knows what's up is Locke, but he's been hanging out unseen in Jacob's shack with Christian Shephard wearing only one white tennis shoe and presumably Walt is around there somewhere too. Michael is returning to the show in the next couple of episodes, and it seems that Hurley, Kate, Jack, and three other motherfuckers are in the same boat that he was at the end of season two: they've sold out the rest of the group and their conscience is making them pay for it. It is genius the way the season is headed toward some unavoidable catastrophe.

soft. heaven will not allow
the forgotten drums of Babylon
to thump against the foreign wind
and die before the ages end
tonight is tomorrow is the last seven years
all forgotten with pints of tears
together, we shall overflow
the mighty toe that drags to show
frayed corners of dirty rags
sooty webs and damp stone bags
wallops happen for a reason
no, not really, only teasin'
eventually the dirt trail widens
room to walk but no where to hide in.

Brambles in Shambles

the first section of something new

By the time I get to my seat in the waiting room it’s already been a shitty morning. These days it’s easy to get like that and usually happens sooner rather than later. The dog wakes me up twenty minutes before I have to get up, which is early as is. It’s fucked from the beginning. Either it’s me burning the coffee or the old ball and chain running me down or its stepping on a roller skate and eating it down the front steps.

But this morning starts shittier than most. It starts to go bad before it starts.

All a sudden I’m scrambling down the side of the road. It getting dark and the grass is slick. He’s way ahead of me and he won’t slow down. I try to scream after him but my voice is ripped away from me and jettisoned towards the sky. He gone and so is the sun; the moon bleeds in its place.

“Abe! Abe! Get up.” It’s Ilene and she’s nudging me. Back when we first got married she would rock me awake, hell, even kiss me awake, if I was lucky jerk me awake. Sharp jabs with the elbow were what passed for affection these days.

“Jesus Christ all fucking mighty. I’m awake. What is it?” My chest feels weaker than yesterday but I haven’t told her and won’t if I don’t have to.

“You were saying his name again. It’s been fifteen years, we don’t need to have this discussion every morning.” She rolled over in her baby blue robe and didn’t say anything else. It used to be dark blue, she used to be pretty, she used to have a glow to her. I fart in the bed and walk to the bathroom.

Standing in front of the mirror I rub my stomach, some pretty sizable stains have formed on my tank top under each arm. I started going bald about ten years ago and I marked that as the true and definable end to my boyhood good looks. I have gotten fat as fuck.

My socks are in the sink and I didn’t put them there, I suspect the beast I sleep next to. I have a habit of leaving my socks on the floor, its not a terrible habit, there are worse habits, some people have drugs habits for instance. Since the marriage went flat she’s found ways to subtly punish me for all the things that annoy her. Me, I don’t do shit, yeah she bothers me a good deal but what do I do, I shut my mouth, I get on with things. I leave the socks in the sink.

There isn’t any hot water so I tug one out quick and pull on some dirty underwear, I used to dress up for work, everyday I would wear a tie and slacks and the whole deal. Now I only wear a fully washed ensemble a few days a month, following laundry day. I cut myself shaving and stub my toe on the bedpost.

I had graded a bunch of papers the night before and can’t find them. I had stopped paying attention to a lot of things, I couldn’t really remember what the papers were about but I think it was something involving “the new deal” or FDR or what the fuck ever. I ended up finding them in a folder under a coffee table. Darla’s kids must have moved them sometime last night. Darla is my sister in law; she’s a lot younger than Irene and has two young children. They are annoying and I sort of hate them even though they’re children. They always have some sort of shit on their faces, be it spaghetti-os or ice cream.

Looking through the papers I realize I haven’t graded some of them, which isn’t really a problem seeing as I didn’t really read the other ones. I give some vague notes and leave it at that. I make oatmeal and it’s too hot. I burn my tongue and spill down the front of my shirt. Normally I would go back upstairs and change my shirt but I feel if I have to see Irene for another second today I might strangle her.

There is no gas in the tank and I wasn’t the last to take it out. I used to be responsible for that sort of thing, looking out for the family. Now I’ve just gotten sick of taking care of things and I don’t feel selfish for it. I’m already late for my appointment which means that I’m going to be late for work which means that asshole Garzo is going to be up my ass all week, again. Garzo, that smug ball licker.

Pulling into the gas station I realize I forgot my wallet on the nightstand.

“Fuck me. Fuck me. Fuck me.” I open the door to the Camry and slip stepping out by the gas pump. The oil marks on the cement have crystallized around the edges like they do in the winter, not when it’s just a little cold, when it’s really cold. When it cuts through your clothes and makes your bones ache.

I fish a couple dollars in change off the floor of the car, which is just enough to keep the gas tank from freezing, I pay for it and strongly consider stealing a snack from inside the store. The clerk gives me a dirty look when I hand him a handful of dimes. I want to break his fucking nose for the way he’s shaking his head and counting the coins but I don’t. I don’t even say anything because in general I’m kind of a pushover.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m full of anger but I rarely do anything about it. I kicked a guy’s ass in college one time for a reason I can’t remember and I chewed out a guy at Subway a couple years ago. Beyond that, total pushover.

I can hardly feel my hands when I walk into the doctor’s office, so cold in fact that I can’t feel myself pissing on my own hand. I wash my hands and check my hair in the mirror.

The girl behind the desk is a looker. She has her hair pinned back high and tight in a knot of some sort, a bun, that’s what it was. I throw her a glance as I approach the counter and say my name in my smoothest Bond voice.

“Dunleavy, Abe. Four o’clock.” She smiles and I think I’m doing quite well in my first flirtation of the day, that is until she looks down and her smile turns into a smirk. I look down and see that my fly is open. I grit my teeth and walk towards the waiting room.

The magazines all suck and are old as shit. I read an article about Curtis Enis when he was still playing at Penn State. Article has him pegged as the next big thing, hilarious. The doctor takes forever to get to me and I’m fifteen pounds heavier than I was at my last time I was in. At least I don’t have to strip down to my skivvies. After a while the doctor comes in to talk to me and he has some bad news.

When I get back outside it hasn’t gotten any warmer but it doesn’t bother me as much as it did before. I don’t even zip up my coat. I get back in the Camry and turn the key. Nothing happens, I guess it wasn’t enough to keep the lines from freezing.

“I’m fucked.” I wasn’t referring to the car. I was referring to my heart, which in a medical sense is fucked.

And How...

We are living in the wrong age.
Where music is weaker and drugs are more dangerous.
Where its hard to talk and easy to text.
Where money runs and problems come.
Where its hard to see the difference between football and politics.
Where that’s the way they like it.
Where reality Tv is an excuse for reality
And for entertainment.
Where people give a fuck about Tila Tequila.
Where people voted for George Bush.

Wait…

We are living in the wrong world.
Where the soil is dying and no one gives a fuck.
Where health care robs us blind.
Where sickness is strong.
Where love is a dollar and a dime.
Where people would care
If they had enough time.
Where we watch the news and believe it.
But still don’t care.

Wait…

It’s me,
I don’t care about these things
It’s easier.
I live in the wrong me.

SOLIDS THAT DON'T LIQUIFY OR GASIFY

i work two jobs.
the bird flew out of my hand.
i threw a net on it and broke its lungs.
it hissed at me til it died.
i work four jobs.
outside it snows, but
cockatiels can live anywhere, any condition, as long as they have a warm shelter to come back to.
they'll fuck, but she won't get pregnant if there is no nest to raise them in.
i work seven jobs.
two birds in the bush are better than one that's choking to death.
they have red cheeks like they're embarrassed, but they can't be embarrassed because they don't even know that someone else could observe their behavior.
too cold to dig a grave, so we eat him with spaghetti and Carlos Rossi.
i work ten jobs.
everybody knows this is nowhere.
i'm giving this to you on a golden platter.
the soup was good.
you hurt me, but he's dead, so.
open season.
i work thirty-three and one third jobs.