terrorism sux

Paris is incredible. Incroyable. Very possibly the most treasured city in the world, though I hate to use superlatives. Have you been there? You will understand the origin of the café and people will talk back to you, tell you how they really feel, argue with you, almost fight with you before you all get down to the basic human show of kindness, and share some bread crusts and cheese, water and wine, coffee and conversation. And embrace one another, locating a point of arrival  – by point of departure. You gotta roll up sleeves and put forth the knuckles of convictions first, show them where you stand. Only then can you find common ground somewhere between, which often is the character behind the words and philosophies. Willingness to defend your cause and country. Loyalty. Spiritedness. Cohesion.Esprit de corps. This is the French term for the universal experience of morale. Uniting behind a common cause. And in these times of terrorism (under attack today in Nice) we need the glue only France can manufacture. Let our hearts go out to the lives lost and the lives living with the loss. We all can feel the loss and let those who we have lost inspire us to counter by coming together somehow to heal these differences because we all can agree, on ALL sides, terror and Terrorism suck.

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the crime scene is permanent

Her great eyes fall on us

while we are looking

the medium
the monster

we give our all
to thank her
for the ocean

lackluster commentary
washes up on the shore

the droppings
of opinion
hit and run
hit and run

the crime scene
is permanent

she spreads us
lost and luster
thin sometimes

in a minute hand’s
wide circling
lenient spin
sometimes

we do it
to ourselves

the hours
artfully wasted
the body
hardly moves

text necking in our photo
editing booths

manipulating
the age off our faces

pixel worship
while life gets scarier
out there

help me
i have forgotten
what’s real

i don’t wanna regret
all this screen time
like some washed up
porn star

even that
must be real

god let me fall back
laughing in your arms

at a bar
at a laundromat
smoking reds

caring

american dream concession stand

The business was familiar to us all, and could not have polled much worse in a popularity contest. Kinda like one of those Amazon  personal online shops, where some thief set up an account and made their first sale but refused to deliver. Rating goes substrata. They may think they will, but they won’t ever sell anything again, on Amazon.  The popularity polling chalked up to this: statistically, one person out of twenty, was talking to the porcelain, per diem.

Lemonade-stand politics, on the main thoroughfare. Selling lemons with sugar, and splenda to spare. Just the usual american dream concession stand. Lining of pockets. Confusing law with order. Wearing mops on their heads during nuclear-family civil-war revival fetish skirmishes. Focused on precedents rather than innovative action, when weight of their argument failed to summon any traction.

Who knows exactly what was the mainstay of their business? Maybe talk soup. Whatever carried over long weekends, on the backs of TGI Fridays and long island iced teas. They resorted to shady tactics, hung over a rail.  Weekdays, if necessary, they were open for business. Conducted by whomever wasn’t drying out, or in jail. Daydreams of badminton, croqueting through their minds. Only Joan Didion might write a piece, if paid well, to drum up business for these assholes. But she would tell the truth. Everyone loves a scandal.

mousey

‘mouse’ by k

Who knows how they were still afloat? Hardly IPO material. I guess they had a fan following, from facebook promotion. SEO dabbling, over suntan lotion. Complaints from the business bureau? disregarded completely. They continued to package their spam sandwiches, in platistic wrap. It used to be Saran Wrap, but like pharmaceuticals, the label was too costly. It used to be cellophane. Wow. It wouldn’t take the CFO they could not afford, to tell them to shelve the luxury ticket. Go back to backyards, and orchestras of crickets.

You know your business is failing when you’re trying to finagle backroom deals with the US Postal Service to work out a cheaper shipping plan. UPS and FEDEX wouldn’t even have a conversation. That’s like Lance Armstrong having a conversation with the Tour De France. Or OJ Simpson having a conversation with the NFL. Or Mike Milken having a conversation with the NYSE.

Their public relations campaigns were spectacular. Like Anthony Weiner’s sextexting vernacular. They could run for cover in a second, but they would never disappear.  The headlines were too lucrative. Their half-baked proposals awash on the carpet. They could spin their bad press like a champ. They were attempting to turn triangles, into squares.  Bogies, into eagles. Who knows what was par for the course anymore? They convinced themselves of their own relevance. Their substandard practice had fallen below basements, and washed far downshore the glacier. Their MTV cribs became archaelogical digs.

The slave labor pool of interns fueled their quiet ascension. Their fans were fanatic, unsubsidized, wallowing. The swallows in the trees looked down, swallowing. Witness to an outlying mob-like destructo-con. Another promotion party with no compass at all. Rushing in on August with stale promotions for fall. Dropping what would never pass for science, to the kids in the halls.

Another american dream concession stand. Barely legal and belly up, with copyright infringement parade-style tactics. They had no protection from themselves. Not even prophylactics.