Thursday, November 11, 2004

Jesus Killed the Kennedy's

When Jesus Christ killed the Kennedy’s,
He sat both on rooftops and window ledges to get the shot just right,
And the world turned just a bit slower,
As a shot rang out to bounce across decades,
To fell a plane and scatter grey matter in trace amounts across an old parade car,
The cross now on heads as they jolt pass at less than holy speeds,
Waiting for the thunder to consume a life,
To put them in the ground.

When Christ first selected a weapon that day,
It was without dread or lackluster to duty,
Perhaps he felt for Cuba or was far too similar to junior,
He waited for the moment to strike,
To take them from their thrones.

When Jesus killed the Kennedy’s,
It’s confirmed that he was not out of town enjoying the seasons,
But that he harbored and meditated with malign contempt,
To reduce to none a competitive trinity,
One that allied with free market instead of free will,
Not that their parity was adverse,
But there is no reasoning with religion some days.

The day that Jesus killed the Kennedy’s,
The Pope said somebody needs to take that boy out,
He meant Jesus,
I’m assuming he went too far my lord,
This question was answered with a nod,
Nobody moved because they all knew,
There is no reasoning with religion some days.

The day Jesus stalked the streets for his hiding spot,
The day the Vatican sat on their hands,
The day the Kennedy’s groomed and bathed and practiced their wave,
The day America waited for a moment they could all share together
The day we waited for something big to change our lives
The day the son of a myth discharged a weapon in public and then ran-ran-ran.

The plane went down and everyone said awwwwww,
All this metal and shattered family dreams,
And Jacqueline wept for the attonment of the inevitable,
And Jesus forgave himself…

Tuesday, November 02, 2004

My kind of people

I think there are two types of people that sit alone in coffee shops. The depressed; and the depressed and waiting for someone. They sit in lounges and on poolsides too, and maybe those are just the two types of people to begin with.

You can stroll into that new city brimming with hope but the essence and draw of life will eventually let you know that these little things you do are just a distraction from what eats you inside.

Or maybe im just less hopeful than the people that frow in nobodys direction as I speed past their car windows and groping headlights. Maybe I take shit too seriously and convert their passive stares into angst and a wholly deprived mode of mind, I succumb to the projection of state and boil about what bad news they just got or how within that situation I would be unable to survive.

Truth is that we are all equally unable to survive it all, and maybe thats why we wait in coffee shops and hope for someone to come wake us up. The caffeine cant do a good enough job of keeping us awake, and I can understand that, because we are purposely slipping away, slinking under our chairs for the pity of humanity, avaoiding glares and shedding small talk just to devote full attention to those heavy doors that any moment could swing open and deliver our next new reason to live.

Hulk in Pants

Its Halloween, and I am celebrating the one year aniversary of having lost myself to the girl i should have grown old with. Isnt it funny to hear other people say cathartic shit like that, pretending they know what love and hurt and jealousy are. Things are different this year, in fact everything is different. She sits on my mind as an old mistake, my home is a brick fortress with the hounds of god at the doors, my job is a delight of chemicals and creativity, my sex life as dry as the Sahara, my local language profficency nill, and the rest of the world just wrapped up in those preoccupations. The only consistent field is of course the bills and radical debt that it took to catapult me half way across the united states and into this derivation land concieved of a wandering bastard of Mexico and some lost band of Aztec mystics.

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The funny part about horror movies is that when a man turns into a monster, or some elisive transformation renders an akward 130 pound lout into a sneering beast, the clothing rips off of him with such ferocity. You see close ups of buttons popping and shirt sleeves being wrent by the horrible transmuting flesh and muscle.

Strangly though, the byproduct is always some rippling green monstrosity in Capris.

Was this fashoon trend inspired by the hulk himself, or countless wolfman concepts? Or instead, has the practical intergrity and inherent indestructability of Capris leggings been shamelessly advertised since even before the ilk of Mary Shelly.

Some would argue with me that depending on the era, transformation garb has also included various sub-species of Shorts and Jams. Let us not forget though that they are still well within the fatherly genus of incomplete leg coverings, so rests my point.

This does nothing but force me into wondering why for once cannot Frankensteins abbomination be complete with a a frankensteinian cock, and cater not the the censors who would have you believe that the mystical world of the supernatural is too uptight to show some werewolf vaginas or cursed mummy tits.

Dont tell me it would be another million or so in special effects just to give the Hulk some big green jello balls. Its fot the love of believability anyhow. Who can go to a film and be drawn into the storyline when they see a perfectly good fast motion steroid engorgement go sour with the tacky irony of granny bloomers being the cape of their new super hero.

Now for the record, I dont want to see King Kong bat planes out of the sky with his ding-dong, or for that matter see another bare actors ass on my screen (Ill leave that love for my mother and Patrick Swazey), but please people, I for one know that with balls like the Hulks, he is bound to skip the Capris and instead battle for the fate of the earth in some nice loose fitting sweat pants...