Poetry Is Phooey.

I had a poetry reading recently (July 26) at The Lemon Grove, and performances are relatively new to me. Between tap dancers, songwriters, belly dancers and a reggae artist, there was me with my words. And a sore, sickly voice belting out some recent poetry and accompanying banter. It went over as well as I'd hope, and I hope it doesn't skewer my poetry towards becoming more comedy. But, really, laughs are nice to hear, and good confirmation that clapping and compliments later aren't forced. Also, this may mean I'll be taking the dark corridor of being shunned by true poets with catalogs-worth of serious prose. You know what- life ain't much to look at, but it sure is fun to laugh at. First, here's another short 'poem' that I added to my 'set' (which consisted of "A Bird in the Basement" and the other short poems):


"On Die Hard"

What exactly
do you call yourself
if you’re a die-hard fan
of a Die Hard film?


And, then here's more of a true poem in the conventional sense of rhyme, meter and all that jargon.

“Down the Shameful Alley, and into the Wary Night”

Gloomy, overcast,
Nick Drake soundtracked,
caffeine-free, Eve fever-ridden,
still and foreshadowing Armageddon;
that’s how I prefer my-

well, I like the uncertainty of the morning,

and bowling every evening with five
of the closest guys to me
with two strong fingers
and one helluva thumb each.

The morning of March 5, 1981,
I was canned from the tomato soup
canning company
after the boss’ graveyard shift
conversation on
the nightly commute home
brought this admission:

“This time of night is for shadows
to take the form of motorcyclers,
sideways tomato soup cans
and monsters;
pumping brakes at hallucinations.”

One failed piss test
led to an afternoon of unrest,
soaking in syrupy red dreams.

That evening,
during the bowling outing,
with five guys that could give
one terrifying thumbs up,
I applied to work at the alley.

And the bowling boy frowned
as I asked the Ten Pin Alley workers,
if they can still go on strike,
and if they do,
could it be misconstrued
as a positive to their bowling boss?

After, the guys think they tossed
my application in the gutter,
and I cut my losses,
calling my mother,
crying,

"Come pick me up at the alley."


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Forthcoming: perhaps I'll speak of my trips to New York & to Chicago's Pitchfork Music Festival. Or, just compile the tweets during the trips with some photos. Also, I guess there are still a lot of past shows I could talk about. Oh my, so much to do, and I never freakin' do any of it. Also, I have an idea for a video blog, but it's sort of hard to do that when my parents are usually around at home. Or, trying to sleep. Whenever I move out, demand video blogs by the hundreds. I mean, eventually there would be hundreds after many years of lame video blogs. This is Planet Pluto, saying Good Night.

Oh, I know I reference Flight of the Conchords a LOT, but this tune was in my head throughout my travels to New York and Chicago, so here you go:

Earthly Observations.

The Planet Pluto's first video web-log! Or, vlog for short. Now, that's an alien term if I ever heard one.

It's a tad lengthy, hope you can stay with me for highlights such as earth observations on Michael Jackson, Sarah Palin and Independence Day. Also, there's some comments on the fine dining of this planet, an imitation of Bob Dylan, a new version of Talking Heads' "Psycho Killer", some sign reading and a misquote of Bill Callahan. Oh, you enjoy now!



Trivia: What band shirt am I wearing? What is the mask from at the beginning? What all songs play in the background? And, create your own trivia.

Also, my friend Emily commented that she hopes there are penguin blankets on Pluto since it is freezing. That's a good one, for an earthling.