friday’s post of cool stuff #84: pipes and the hucking foo

saturday now. it happens.

having been inspired by a kindred spirit i ask you all, how can you say one thing and do another?

in 1963, the muppets were booked for a guest spot on the jack paar program which was a prime-time friday night talk-variety hour. the muppet team; jim henson, frank oz, don sahlin and jerry juhl arrived at nbc studios for a 10am rehearsal when they were informed that they weren’t actually needed on stage until 4pm. with time to kill, they opened the door to their dressing room and found that it was filled with dark, dusty and rusty pipes. before the masses witnessed this:

the henson crew created this:

good luck keeping creative people down.

the pipe below was once owned by the president of the confederacy. he was named jefferson davis. don’t even get me going on his name. but he smoked this:

after being imprisoned by the union at the end of the civil war, he ached to smoke. he was placed in a room equipped with a desk with an oil lamp and a wooden chair. the desk sat in front of a small window, which was his only view of the world during the time he was held captive. davis was manacled for much of his two-year incarceration until u.s. army physician lieutenant colonel john craven ordered the chains to be removed for the prisoner’s health. he had walked into the cell and was astonished at his foe’s distressing physical condition.

he ordered the pipe above to be immediately brought to the former president of a failed attempt against the northern united states.

i expect a drone plane to hit me in five four three two one…

should they see these words, where i call for revolution, where i ask that we pick up our guns and fight cops, politicians, bankers and anybody whose family you would not get a chance to face in a court of “law,” well then, yeah! and what was i ranting about?

oh yeah. hurt the bankers. hurt democrats. hurt republicans. hurt most politicians because they are the same thing (bought and paid for by bankers and corporations) and they could care less about you.

the working man. the housewife. are there any of those left?

well, i guess it’s okay if you can afford dinner with them. how much is that lately? a hundred grand?

having written the truth. erase these pages and they will be forgotten. with humility and ***’s grace, all my triumphs and foibles will live a thousand years or be erased. as if i was a pharaoh.

now for more pipes.

which leads me to this poem;

my rant would be lost on most
these pictures inspire by me
and what do you really know about me?
the life of a saint is only sin
admitted
i am a sinner
saved because *** wondered what the f***
“listen!
or do not.”

*** came and tried and was nailed to wood
i could write another novel with that metaphor
but will simplify

would you do that for your sea monkeys
or your children
your fellow man being an *** in his car
your wife your mom your best friend
would you die and tell them
don’t let this happen again?

we can all be better people
just don’t look to me to be perfect
or my reflection might blind you
sinner
forgiver
philanthroper.

close your eyes. it’s stereo. none of your pain or woe will show show through.

things some need to be reminded of.

a pipe. a house in new orleans. ruins. tears. defense.

the saints are coming.

i am an american. love’s ceiling is bearing down on me.

believing.

deceived.

voting for the evil part because it’s that or not voting at all.

okay. i admit. this time i won’t vote. it’s rigged. as if obama was opposed to mccain. as if our civil liberties would be more than what is left today. as if the bp oil spill would have been handled with more, um, dead rich british f***s. the difference is we thought a black guy would be more like dr. king and less like karl rove.

we were suckered.

smearing bugs on paper
the words get them
if i time it right
they land
and walk
i wait
and hit the k
practice tells me
hit a
s
p
smoosh
as if my papers will be worth a sh*t
i still like killing bugs
by guessing which key to hit
and making my poetry fit their death with an 70-year old typewriter
because i don’t clean the typebars
i spit on them sometimes
and stop to pray
i don’t come back as a bug

all praises to eber at go away garage for inspiring this post.

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