Art Is None Of My Business

Auditions can be tough, especially in light of the fact, that this audition i am speaking of is close to my heart, that being poetry/performance. A few weeks ago, i answered an ad from a local art gallery that was looking for artists, the kind that draw & sketch & those that perform, for a humor show that was being billed as a art that makes fun or mocks. fair enough, i thought, as i submitted 4 pieces for the show. a few days later, i received notice from the gallery, saying that one of my pieces would be too long & could i send them a sample on tape or cassette of the other pieces? instead, i volunteered to come down to the space to audition. so, that's what i did, subsituting the bounced piece for another, only to get a voicemail message later in the evening, that the only piece that they liked was a minute & half long & the gallery people couldn't see "disturbing" the patrons while they gazed upon the other artworks in the gallery. well, it all seems kind of silly to me, so here now, i'd like to present to you the following four pieces i audtioned to them. you be the judge & tell me, do you think these are laugh-out-loud funny or just plain unfunny? leave your comments in the comment box please...

(1) JesuSicle Brand Popsicles-A Novel, If Not Immaculate ConfectionaryConception>The Radio Commercial…>>On-Air Announcer:> “Imagine a hot sweltering day at the church--the kind of day you’d expect inHell -- the air-conditioning is not working, the fans you have switched onare blowing around a lot of hot air, as if the preacher’s wasn’t enough, andto make matters worse, children are screaming and running around thesanctuary, very oblivious to the group religious leader. She is unable toget them to chill out until she reaches into the portable freezer and giveseach of them a cool and refreshing JesuSicle (pronounced: Gee-sick-el) brandPopsicle! Yes friends, you heard me correctly, a JesuSicle!>For all you skeptics out there, here are the sweet details! Not only is itchockfull of eight vitamins and iron, but also it is guaranteed to give yourchildren all the Holy Spirit energy and holier-than- thou power they need ona day like today!Shaped like the holy savior dying on the cross, you will be glad to knowthat JesuSicles have been given high marks in quality, appearance and tasteby theologians, TV evangelists and ministries throughout the world. Look for it in your grocer’s freezer today! Comes in Crucifixion Cherry,Sepulchered Strawberry, Holy Smoke Gray, Proud Pilate Purple, Orange YouGlad You Accepted Jesus and our newest flavor, Roman Red Raspberry.”Available in same flavor six packs and Apostle 12 Pack, consisting of two ofeach flavor. Whether in church or not, your kiddies will love the challengeof licking down both arms and head before one or all of it falls off! As anadded incentive, each JesuSicle comes with a disposable red, white and bluepaint kit with brush that your children can paint the remaining cross-shapedsticks and place them along the highways where someone had previously died. And remember brothers and sisters, Hell are hot. A cool and refreshingJesuSicle is not.Amen!

(2)Oh, Deer!

Saw a deer in the glade,
In the clear of the shade
As the cars and the traffic raced on by

I crept closer across snow-covered ground,
Made wee little sound
As her head jerked suddenly toward me and said, “Hi!”

In the twilight I just spoke,
Told a few people jokes
At first she laughed and then she cried;

“Humans can be an annoying bunch,
Instead of letting us live,
They eat us for lunch”

“We just want our peace,
We want to be left alone
Wake up with the sun and return to the thicket when the dark sends us home”

“Imagine if you would
A bridge across the sea, a herd of white-tailed deer running so free
And then beyond the Gate of Seth,
Behold! A field of humans starving to death
And we’d all gather ‘round and watch them utter their last breaths
Later on, we’d sing and pray and feast
Upon the great white threat that can no longer slaughter us like beasts
After gutting their hides like they’ve done so much to ours
We’d mount their heads the same way they display us and our antlers”

As I looked at them with surprise,
Felt a cold shudder shoot down my spine
Such ghastly acts we commit without deny

As I waved so long to her and sighed,
I walked to my car and cried.
Still, for some odd reason, I hungered for a venison burger and an order of fries

(3) The Dells

(The Bells By Edgar Allen Poe, parody with rearrangements of stanzas by Charles Bernstein)

Hear the splash of water on the dellsUgly dellsWhat a sight of homeliness
Their ugliness foretells
How they winkle, winkle, winkle
In the pale Wisconsin night
All the men seem to sprinkle
With a urinary flight
Keeping pine, pine, pine
With a bunch of tissue line
From the outhouse to the bathhouse
That so wonderfully smells
In the dells, dells, dells, dells, dells, dells, dells
From the spraying and the sprinkling on the dells
Hear the molding of the dells
Iron dells
What a world of water parks their monopoly compels
For all the boats that float
From the $50 park tickets in our coats
And the people sit and drone
On their suburban speakerphones
And the tolling, tolling, tolling
Feels a memento mori in the bankrolling
From the robbing and the shish-kabobbing
Of the melancholy dells
Oh, the dells, dells, dells, dells, dells, dells, dells
Oh, the ozoning and the rezoning of the dells.
Hear the robots clanging around the dells
Brazen dells
What a tall tale of useful scrap metal now
Old Tommy Bartlett tells
Much too mummified to speak
Oh, his robots can only squeak
For all eardrums are blown
When those crazy robots screech like saxophones
Roaming faster, faster, faster
Like a blending mix-master
In a amorous attempt to keep the idea from becoming farklempt
With the dells, dells, dells, dells, dells, dells, dells
With the flim-flammering and the she-banging of the dells
Hear the noisy traffic Wisconsin dells
Golden dells
What a world of tourism
Their financial status foretells
Through the circus parades in the night
How the cash registers ring out their profit margin delight
Through the dollars and the credit cards
And the cheese concoctions that taste like vomit a la’ lard
How it smells
How it sells
On the future
How it gels
From the stringing and the bringing of the tourists to the dells
To the dells, dells, dells, dells, dells, dells, dells
Of the reaming and the scheming of the dells

(4)History Makes Strange Bedfellows AKA The True Ballad Of How Dr Jack Kevorkian Tried To Revive The Comatose Life Of Yasser Arafat & Failed Miserably

“No prison can hold me in time of need. Gotta go help my friend dying in a
Paris bed. Gotta go fix him good, so he don’t wind up dead,” Dr. Jack
Kevorkian to reporters in Paris, on why he escaped a Michigan state
penitentiary in early morning hours of November 10, 2004.

This here’s the story of how Dr. Jack Kevorkian tried to alter history, but
instead made it miserable for his late dear friend Yasser Arafat. It’s a
true story, I swear to Allah…

Late one night in prison cell two, Dr. Jack was kickin’ back with nothin’
better to do, when suddenly he received a telekinetic message from his old
friend Yasser, calling out, “Come to Paris right away! I need you!”
Well, Dr. Jack didn’t have time to pack. He slipped through the bars and
made his escape.
Meanwhile, back at the penitentiary, the floodlights went up, the dogs were
a-sniffin’ about as badly as watching old Scottie Pippin limping off a
basketball court. They wrote the report & then came that old familiar sound:
Calling all cars! Calling all cars! The greatest manhunt ever assembled &
manifested on prison grounds, because most people assumed what old Dr. Jack
was really up to…
He crawled & he swam. He walked & he ran. He thumbed & he crammed himself a ride to Detroit International. There was no stopping Dr. Jack, as he ran
down the airport gangway & toward the entrance of a Paris-bound plane.
“Take me to Yasser!” he screamed.
“Are you insane?” the pilots countered.
Dr. Jack produced a needle & a set of rubber tubes. Well, sir, those pilots didn’t
need any more convincing, so off they flew, over the clouds and past the oceans. Turned right at Greenland & flew by England, when at last they arrived in Paris at 1 a.m., only to be confronted by a crowd of French coppers, waiting to click him in cuffs & take him back to Detroit.
But that Jack! Was he clever or what! The sly euthanasia pioneer eluded the
cops, needling them one-by-one as he sailed passed, watching each man point,
click & fall holding their guns, for the very last time.
As 1 a.m., fell into 1:30, he caught a cab & told the driver to step on it fast. The cab drove on until it reached the infirmary, got out and saw the place was crawling with soldiers & coppers & mourners & press corps & gawkers & vendors hawking Arafat trinkets galore.
Tee shirts & flags and posters & CDs & books, describing his life as a secret CIA agent martyr Nobel Peace prize-winning guerilla terrorist, with still surprisingly good looks.
Quick-thinking made him open up a sewer cover & dove into an underground
sewage canal. He did the front-stroke, the backstroke & the butterfly too, ‘til he found a dry landing. Then, he walked up a few flights of stairs, snuck around the sick wards, ‘til he saw a mob of clerics on their knees, with Arafat laying there, all covered in fleas. It was all that muslin, ya know?
Dr. Jack leaped up and yelled at the top of his lungs, “Yasser! I’m here for you,” but Yasser didn’t answer & over the mob Jack rose, stood at his bedside & grabbed Yasser’s left hand and tried to revive him. Without skipping a beat, Yasser’s eyes flitted, while the mob of clerics gritted their teeth and prayed even harder, to breathe new life into their sleeping giant golem martyr. Jack reached over and rubbed his belly, then his legs, followed by his nose, as one cleric looked up and exclaimed, “Great Allah’s Ghost! We never thought of touching those!”
Well, Dr. Jack, he was doing alright, attempting to revive the great
Palestinian leader was his goal & anyway, it was far better than rotting in that Michigan penitentiary hole. So, he moved and danced his way around the room, as feelings of joy & happiness replaced the despair and gloom. Jack worked his magic, as the clerics became flirty, when suddenly Jack tripped over a long white cord & looked at the clock on the wall. It read exactly 3:30.

Die Terri Schiavo Die

is terri schiavo dead yet? if not, i sure hope it will be soon. the woman deserves a little peace & quiet after these many years of being in a spotlight, reportedly that she never asked to be in. Her parents see fit to keep her alive, despite the fact she is brain-dead. the court systems have denied them, yet they persist. the protesters want her alive & have done everything from sending children with cups of water for her, who then are promptly arrested & have used opportunities such as the easter week as a stem for their cause. don't these demonstrators have anything better to do than to stand outside a hospice & demand that a human vegetable be fed for what could likely end up for years & years & years & years to come? are they (the protesters) going to pay for terri? i highly doubt it. what is the real purpose to having terri being kept alive, other than the fact her parents can feed off of her tragedy? as much as the parents paint themselves up as caring for their daughter, i really believe there is a different motivation afoot, something that they aren't talking about publically & that is money! no doubt behind the scenes, they have been offered exclusive deals for books, television movies & the like. no one seems to talk about these sorts of things. perhaps because they are too wound up in their own worlds for the moment. so please folks, let terri schavio die already & maybe we can all get us some sleep!

Mouse In The House

lately, i've had a mouse problem in my apartment, i killed a total of 16 mice in a 2 week period, no thanks to my landlord. it helped break writer's block nonetheless & so, i'd like to share one of the several poems i have written on the subject. hope you enjoy it...

Mouse Number Nine

Mouse Number Nine,
Doesn’t have time to die
So elusive, Mouse Number Nine watches from a corner the traps being laid by the Richard Speck of mouse-killers
Horrified, Mouse Number Nine watches, as its entire family is murdered
One by one by one by one by one by one by one by one
Mouse Number Nine devises a plan to hole up inside an untouched box, crafty as a fox, so it believes
Mouse Number Nine goes on a hunger strike to get itself ready for the final assault, but in the fourth hour, the idea begins to sour,
And all Mouse Number Nine could think of, was food
Now’s there’s a crazy theory, that just makes me sneeze
About cats chasing mice that nibble on cheese
And dogs that chase cats that chase mice
And those poor field mice, like Mouse Number Nine that never get enough to eat
Squeak! Squeak! Squeak! Squeak!

(written March 8, 2005)