Check this out! Tony Plocido Umeus feat. Teeplo-First Sight
I really dug the poem before the music. I really dig it with the music.. ENJOY!
Monday, March 25, 2013
First Sight- Umeus and Teeplo (Tony Plocido)
Check this out! Tony Plocido Umeus feat. Teeplo-First Sight
I really dug the poem before the music. I really dig it with the music.. ENJOY!
I really dug the poem before the music. I really dig it with the music.. ENJOY!
Saturday, March 23, 2013
Common Sense Drinks Alone
Common Sense
downs another shot
at the end of the bar.
He has been at it
for an hour or so,
and things out there
are starting to get fuzzy.
Now reality
comes in bits and waves,
an optical illusion,
made palatable
by carefully spun lies.
Corporate paltering
selling plasticine promises
of old age sex
and face paralyzing
beauty cream.
Another shot down,
the future looks
Dali-esque,
eyeballs hardening,
funhouse mirror reflects
aberations of the past.
Grabbing the bottle,
four fingers down,
and everything dims,
intentional vivisepulture,
fresh food for the worms.
Common Sense
found puking
behind the dumpster
in the alley,
while the Tea Party looks
for its Mad Hatter,
sitting on their hands
for the revolution to come.
Wiping his mouth,
bellicose bantering
from would be jingoists
fill his ears with
Pavlovian responses
to real world issues
manufactured by the
Fair and Balanced.
and tasting stale vomit,
Common Sense goes home.
Common Sense Drinks Alone
Common
Sense
downs
another shot
at
the end of the bar.
He
has been at it
for
an hour or so,
and
things out there
are
starting to get fuzzy.
Now
reality
comes
in bits and waves,
an
optical illusion,
made
palatable
by
carefully spun lies.
Corporate
paltering
selling
plasticine promises
of
old age sex
and
face paralyzing
beauty
cream.
Another
shot down,
the
future looks
Dali-esque,
eyeballs
hardening,
funhouse
mirror reflects
aberations
of the past.
Grabbing
the bottle,
four
fingers down,
and
everything dims,
intentional
vivisepulture,
fresh
food for the worms.
Common
Sense
found
puking
behind
the dumpster
in
the alley,
while
the Tea Party looks
for
its Mad Hatter,
sitting
on their hands
for
the revolution to come.
Wiping
his mouth,
bellicose
bantering
from
would be jingoists
fill
his ears with
Pavlovian
responses
to
real world issues
manufactured
by the
Fair
and Balanced.
and
tasting stale vomit,
Common
Sense goes home.
Saturday, March 09, 2013
Learned Poet (or Arrogant Jackass)
Your written eloquence
speaks nothing to
the eyes reading,
to the soul searching,
the heart screaming!
Your attention to
trivialities pound words,
like metal, into dull knives,
bruising more than cutting,
hacking the senses
into dullness,
into coma!
Your lettered names
prove nothing more
than ideas learned,
blinded lemming pride
the halls of academia!
You see, teacher,
a good poem
speaks to our souls, hearts,
coming from life lived
in the tragic,
the mundane,
and magnificent!
Learned Poet (or Arrogant Jackass)
Your written eloquence
speaks nothing to
the eyes reading,
to the soul searching,
the heart screaming!
Your attention to
trivialities pound words,
like metal, into dull knives,
bruising more than cutting,
hacking the senses
into dullness,
into coma!
Your lettered names
prove nothing more
than ideas learned,
blinded lemming pride
the halls of academia!
You see, teacher,
a good poem
speaks to our souls, hearts,
coming from life lived
in the tragic,
the mundane,
and magnificent!
Friday, February 22, 2013
Circus Nation
My country is hemorrhaging clowns.
Rather, Uncle Sam has taken a serious head wound
and is hemorrhaging clowns.
Desipient pissants making footle decissions,
pissing on the poor and forgotten for rapacious gain.
Welcome to the politico 2013,
where common sense meets Walter Mitty
and nothing gets done.
Yup, my country is hemorrhaging clowns....
My country is hemorrhaging clowns.
Rather, Uncle Sam has taken a serious head wound
and is hemorrhaging clowns.
Desipient pissants making footle decissions,
pissing on the poor and forgotten for rapacious gain.
Welcome to the politico 2013,
where common sense meets Walter Mitty
and nothing gets done.
Yup, my country is hemorrhaging clowns....
Circus Nation
My country is hemorrhaging clowns.
Rather, Uncle Sam has taken a serious head wound
and is hemorrhaging clowns.
Desipient pissants making footle decissions,
pissing on the poor and forgotten for rapacious gain.
Welcome to the politico 2013,
where common sense meets Walter Mitty
and nothing gets done.
Yup, my country is hemorrhaging clowns....
My country is hemorrhaging clowns.
Rather, Uncle Sam has taken a serious head wound
and is hemorrhaging clowns.
Desipient pissants making footle decissions,
pissing on the poor and forgotten for rapacious gain.
Welcome to the politico 2013,
where common sense meets Walter Mitty
and nothing gets done.
Yup, my country is hemorrhaging clowns....
Thursday, February 21, 2013
My First Car
(Or, Am I Really That Small?)
In 1984 I was 18 years old, living in Southern Indiana with my dad. I had only been there for a little over a year. My dad, originally from that region, moved back there shortly after leaving me outside San Diego, to live in a tent.. –He had done this sort of thing before. Before leaving me in San Diego he left me, my brother and friend in Ensenada, Mexico for a few weeks with nothing more than a case of Squirt soda, a small bit of food, two bottles of tequila and forty dollars to get more food…..five miles away, without a car! I was in need of a change and stability and called my mom and step dad if I could move back with them in Massachusetts. In a couple of days I was on a plane to Boston to a life of relative safety and comfort.
I had only been there for a couple of weeks when my step dad got me a job as a security guard at the now defunct Wang Labs, his employer. What could go wrong?
It was an unarmed position. In retrospect this was a good thing for two reasons: 1. It only paid minimum wage (under $5.00 per hour) 2. At that time in my life I had a bit of an anger problem, the kind that does not mix well with firearms. However, I did have a really cool two way radio and a five pound Detex clock. The latter is a precursor to a man purse with absolutely no marsupial qualities. It did have a paper tape with pre-printed times on it. As a security guard I would walk around a certain route where there were little Detex boxes at specific locations with Detex keys in them. I would take the key, insert it in the clock and turn it to make an impression on the paper tape, thus giving them printed proof that I made the rounds and that everything was safe.
My only goals for this job were to stay awake and earn enough money to buy a car. Coffee and the Detex clock ensured that I would stay awake. Borrowing my mom’s 1980 Dodge Aspen kept me on the savings path.
I had worked for three months and was able to save a thousand dollars, more than enough money to buy a car back then. I found a few cars that I could afford, but didn’t like. I found a Pinto. Not wanting to die a fiery death I passed on that gem—another was a sweet late sixty’s Impala that I drove thirty miles to see only to find out it didn’t have an engine. What I bought was a Maroon, 1976, Chevy Cogsworth Vega. It had a five speed, aluminum engine block and an aftermarket forty watt Craig stereo system. (I blew the speakers out the second day I owned the car blasting Black Flag’s My War) Alas, it was to be a short love affair with General Motors Engineers hurried, cocaine and booze filled answer to produce a sports car known as the Vega. Its namesake, the brightest star in the constellation Lyra, didn’t have an effect on this car.
At the time I thought it was a good car.
The first two weeks I owned the car had a dramatic effect on my weak time management skills. In that time I was late for work at least six times. I had just finished a meeting with my supervisor at the end of my shift, which ended with him giving me my last warning before being fired. So, being the responsible man boy, I went home and did what anyone in my shoes would do: Get ready to go out for the night.
That night I went to a show in or near Boston. I think it was Jerry’s Kids, Gang Green or some band like that. I knew that I would be home late, but working second shift meant that I could sleep until one or two in the afternoon with plenty of time to make it to work at 4.
I got home late as planned, went straight to bed and to sleep. I dreamt of whatever disturbing stuff that eighteen year olds dream of. That night we had an unusual round of thunderstorms that woke me for only a minute. The transformer behind our house took a hit from a bolt of lightning, knocking out our power and my alarm clock. I do remember hearing an explosion and the later repair crews, but I figured that it was part of my dream and went back to sleep until 4:30pm.
I roll out of bed, head upstairs, start making coffee and hear the front door open. It’s my mom coming home from work. “Early day,” I ask.
“Nope. You not working today?”
Not realizing that she hadn’t come home early I replied, “Getting ready now.”
“Hmm, late start?”
“Why would she ask that?” I thought to myself.
I turned around to look at the only battery operated clock in the house…. 4:45!
“I’m late!”
I rushed downstairs, grabbed the nearest uniform off the floor (the one from the day before, complete with cucumber sauce stains from my Gyro dinner) getting dressed as I ran out the door yelling to my mom, “I may be home early!”
I looked at my watch. It was 4:50. Normally my commute was ten minutes. Of course there is always the traffic issue that plagues Boston and places close to Boston. I could make it there and only be an hour late. Surely my boss would understand and not fire me.
I am flying down the road. My bright and shining star is running great, Henry Rollins is screaming fuzzy nothings over the speakers; I think about love, maybe hate. No, definitely hate. I am thinking about possible excuses for my tardiness, not really paying attention.I am on auto pilot.
I had taken this route on Boston Road in Billerica many times. I coming up to a McDonald’s on my left. I say that the corner is a blind corner, when in actuality it is a pretty straight road at this point. There wasn’t a center turn lane and a few of my friends had accidents that involved rear-ending someone trying to turn left into McDonald’s.
I saw a couple of friends eating outside and yelled a testosterone fueled greeting, “Hey pussies!”
I look forward in just enough time to hit my brakes and suddenly heard the sound of screeching tires (mine) and metal hitting metal at forty five miles an hour. I slammed into the back of a full size Caprice station wagon, wedging my grill and hood underneath his back bumper. I also hit my head on the steering wheel, cutting my head right at my widow’s peak.
I looked up, sort of dazed and saw the back of the Caprice. It was a rolling billboard for Jesus.
Jesus Loves You!
God Is My Co-Pilot
Let Me Tell You About My Best Friend
In Case Of Rapture, This Car Will Be Unmanned
And so on…
As I collected my thoughts and searched for a cigarette, Uber Christian tapped on my window, “Hey little buddy, you okay?”
First of all, pal, at 5’ 6” and 115lbs, I am not little! And secondly, when did we become friends?
As I got out of my car I noticed that Uber Christian was tall. Like 6’ 3” freakishly tall!
Maybe I am little…..
The conversation that followed was between me, Uber Christian and my friends.
UC: Are you okay?
Me: Yeah, I’m fine.
Friend #1: Hey Charlie, nice driving Mario! Ha!
Me: Shut up douche!
UC: You have a cut on your head (he lays a hand on my head) Father God….
Friend#2: Hey Charlie, doesn’t look like you’re going to burn in Hell now!
Me: Again, shut up douche! (pulling away from Uber Christian) and get your hands off me dick!
UC: In Jesus name, Amen.
This went on for a few more minute, ending with me telling Uber Christian that if he didn’t stop preaching at me I was going to jump up and hit him in the jaw. To which friend #2 yelled, “I don’t think you can jump that high!”
Maybe I am short….
The cops finally showed up, took all our information and called a tow truck. The wrecked shining star became a faded memory of its old self in my mom and step dads back yard, eventually being sold for scrap while I was in the Army fighting the Cold War.
There are a few things I learned from this episode in my life:
1 1. Vegas aren’t really that cool.
2 2. A car accident is a good excuse if you are not habitually tardy.
3 3. I need to pick better friends.
And I may indeed be small.
My
First Car
(Or,
Am I Really That Small?)
In 1984 I was 18 years old, living in Southern
Indiana with my dad. I had only been there for a little over a year. My dad, originally
from that region, moved back there shortly after leaving me outside San Diego, to
live in a tent.. –He had done this sort of thing before. Before leaving me in
San Diego he left me, my brother and friend in Ensenada, Mexico for a few weeks
with nothing more than a case of Squirt soda, a small bit of food, two bottles
of tequila and forty dollars to get more food…..five miles away, without a car!
I was in need of a change and stability and called my mom and step dad if I
could move back with them in Massachusetts. In a couple of days I was on a
plane to Boston to a life of relative safety and comfort.
I had only been there for a couple of weeks when my
step dad got me a job as a security guard at the now defunct Wang Labs, his
employer. What could go wrong?
It was an unarmed position. In retrospect this was a
good thing for two reasons: 1. It only paid minimum wage (under $5.00 per hour)
2. At that time in my life I had a bit
of an anger problem, the kind that does not mix well with firearms. However, I
did have a really cool two way radio and a five pound Detex clock. The latter
is a precursor to a man purse with absolutely no marsupial qualities. It did
have a paper tape with pre-printed times on it. As a security guard I would walk
around a certain route where there were little Detex boxes at specific
locations with Detex keys in them. I would take the key, insert it in the clock
and turn it to make an impression on the paper tape, thus giving them printed
proof that I made the rounds and that everything was safe.
My only goals for this job were to stay awake and
earn enough money to buy a car. Coffee and the Detex clock ensured that I would
stay awake. Borrowing my mom’s 1980 Dodge Aspen kept me on the savings path.
I had worked for three months and was able to save a
thousand dollars, more than enough money to buy a car back then. I found a few
cars that I could afford, but didn’t like. I found a Pinto. Not wanting to die
a fiery death I passed on that gem—another was a sweet late sixty’s Impala that
I drove thirty miles to see only to find out it didn’t have an engine. What I
bought was a Maroon, 1976, Chevy Cogsworth Vega. It had a five speed, aluminum
engine block and an aftermarket forty watt Craig stereo system. (I blew the
speakers out the second day I owned the car blasting Black Flag’s My War) Alas,
it was to be a short love affair with General Motors Engineers hurried, cocaine
and booze filled answer to produce a sports car known as the Vega. Its namesake,
the brightest star in the constellation Lyra, didn’t have an effect on this
car.
At the time I thought it was a good car.
The first two weeks I owned the car had a dramatic
effect on my weak time management skills. In that time I was late for work at
least six times. I had just finished a meeting with my supervisor at the end of
my shift, which ended with him giving me my last warning before being fired.
So, being the responsible man boy, I went home and did what anyone in my shoes
would do: Get ready to go out for the night.
That night I went to a show in or near Boston. I
think it was Jerry’s Kids, Gang Green or some band like that. I knew that I
would be home late, but working second shift meant that I could sleep until one
or two in the afternoon with plenty of time to make it to work at 4.
I got home late as planned, went straight to bed and
to sleep. I dreamt of whatever disturbing stuff that eighteen year olds dream
of. That night we had an unusual round of thunderstorms that woke me for only
a minute. The transformer behind our house took a hit from a bolt of lightning,
knocking out our power and my alarm clock. I do remember hearing an explosion and the later repair
crews, but I figured that it was part of my dream and went back to sleep until
4:30pm.
I roll out of bed, head upstairs, start making coffee
and hear the front door open. It’s my mom coming home from work. “Early day,” I
ask.
“Nope. You not working today?”
Not realizing that she hadn’t come home early I
replied, “Getting ready now.”
“Hmm, late start?”
“Why would she ask that?” I thought to myself.
I turned around to look at the only battery operated
clock in the house…. 4:45!
“I’m late!”
I rushed downstairs, grabbed the nearest uniform off
the floor (the one from the day before, complete with cucumber sauce stains
from my Gyro dinner) getting dressed as I ran out the door yelling to my mom, “I
may be home early!”
I looked at my watch. It was 4:50. Normally my
commute was ten minutes. Of course there is always the traffic issue that
plagues Boston and places close to Boston. I could make it there and only be an
hour late. Surely my boss would understand and not fire me.
I am flying down the road. My bright and shining
star is running great, Henry Rollins is screaming fuzzy nothings over the
speakers; I think about love, maybe hate. No, definitely hate. I am thinking
about possible excuses for my tardiness, not really paying attention.I am on auto pilot.
I had taken this route on
Boston Road in Billerica many times. I coming up to a McDonald’s on my left. I say
that the corner is a blind corner, when in actuality it is a pretty straight
road at this point. There wasn’t a center turn lane and a few of my friends had
accidents that involved rear-ending someone trying to turn left into McDonald’s.
I saw a couple of friends eating outside and yelled
a testosterone fueled greeting, “Hey pussies!”
I look forward in just enough time to hit my brakes and
suddenly heard the sound of screeching tires (mine) and metal hitting metal at
forty five miles an hour. I slammed into the back of a full size Caprice
station wagon, wedging my grill and hood underneath his back bumper. I also hit
my head on the steering wheel, cutting my head right at my widow’s peak.
I looked up, sort of dazed and saw the back of the
Caprice. It was a rolling billboard for Jesus.
Jesus Loves You!
God Is My Co-Pilot
Let Me Tell You About My Best Friend
In Case Of Rapture, This Car Will Be Unmanned
And so on…
As I collected my thoughts and searched for a
cigarette, Uber Christian tapped on my window, “Hey little buddy, you okay?”
First of all, pal, at 5’ 6” and 115lbs, I am not
little! And secondly, when did we become friends?
As I got out of my car I noticed that Uber Christian
was tall. Like 6’ 3” freakishly tall!
Maybe I am little…..
The conversation that followed was between me, Uber
Christian and my friends.
UC: Are you okay?
Me: Yeah, I’m fine.
Friend #1: Hey Charlie, nice driving Mario! Ha!
Me: Shut up douche!
UC: You have a cut on your head (he lays a hand on
my head) Father God….
Friend#2: Hey Charlie, doesn’t look like you’re
going to burn in Hell now!
Me: Again, shut up douche! (pulling away from Uber
Christian) and get your hands off me dick!
UC: In Jesus name, Amen.
This went on for a few more minute, ending with me telling
Uber Christian that if he didn’t stop preaching at me I was going to jump up
and hit him in the jaw. To which friend #2 yelled, “I don’t think you can jump
that high!”
Maybe I am short….
The cops finally showed up, took all our information
and called a tow truck. The wrecked shining star became a faded memory of its
old self in my mom and step dads back yard, eventually being sold for scrap
while I was in the Army fighting the Cold War.
There are a few things I learned from this episode
in my life:
1 1. Vegas
aren’t really that cool.
2 2. A
car accident is a good excuse if you are not habitually tardy.
3 3. I
need to pick better friends.
And I may indeed be small.
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