Studio8 - Uniting the Arts

she reads Bill Gates in bed and spends her bonus on propaganda while telling poop jokes to her booss
She sells cook books to Algeria and fixes doll hair on her forehead; she wears
Yellow-coated rainbows so the sun won't shine as bright
She wears yuppie-furrowed brows and angry mob stares at midnight...
While I'm creeping through the door
While I'm sliding out the window
While my knees are bent and dry cuz I'm begging for forgiveness... or I might just be doing yoga to revolutionize the tension
When under the bodhi tree, I scream to buddha and scratch my palms. They burn; They itch.
Blame it on religion, man... nobody sues God.
Elation.
She spits Tom Wolfe in bed and spills her caffeinated beverage on the freshly-washed linens.
She curses hellfire in freakish dreams while the lights are still on... and the broken Tv plays Gospel Radio w/the J-words bleeped out.
"I guess I'll just get syndicated and legalize free speech"
Elevation.
She wakes up with her arms raised, her eyes narrowed, wild from sleep... she lectures the lighting fixtures and the hangings on the wall.
she reads Bill Gates in bed and spends her bonus on 79th street in greasy plates of chicken and 1-2-3 pick up lines from the snifflin stranger on the corner.
She gets funky when Al Sharpton speaks, giving dance steps to his rhyming lines, giving hip swerves to his rhyming lines, blame heredity for receding lines.
She gets lost inside her woolen coat when it's 84 degrees.
she gets night sweats in her woolen coat when its 17 degrees.
she gets tear drops in her woolen coat when she's buckling at the knees.
the doctors told her reading Gates was a pulmonary diesease.
Spitting Wolfe can lengthen life span, dollar bills coat like a knife can, you ain't got struggle and stirfe man...
But my mother does.
but my mother does
But...my mother...does.
She has purpke viens and gray hairs, brown skin and orange fingernails.
She like Beethoven and getting angry.
She has tatoos on her arm that bear her name and kill her charm that pierce her skin and raise alarm.
She has funny cars in the driveway, snow-covered and dirty.
And gym shoes that she keeps in a bag at work so her feet don't tire on her Mecca trip home.
There are glass bottles, *mad dog plights and borken hobo nightmares along the way...
Or do we call em bums now?
The "habitat-challenged"' the bored, the lazy, the can-I-get-a-fifth-of-vodka-for-my-wife-cuz-although-I-make-1400-a-month-a-singing-and-shaking-my-Starbucks-cup-in-the-morning-its-cold-outside-and-plus-i'ma-recovering-alcoholic-so-I-need-a-pity-drink-to0stave-off0my-addiction-or-maybe-just-your-paycheck-for-free-while-I-waste-you-fucking-time.
He ain't got struggle and strife man...
But my mother does.
The surgeon genreal has warned us all that the blue-collar invasion of skid row is detrimental to our psyche and possibly our moods because when I see him getting paid through a Starbucks cup and a sardonic ditty of "Spotty Goes A-Couting"...
I GET REALLY FUCKING PISSED OFF!
You ain't got sturggle and strife man, you got change for a fifty.
Bush'll call you heretics, or maybe just spend thrifty
He'll call you goal-oriented, driven, and yet obscene
The FCC'll charge if your underpants ain't clean.
The FCC'll charge you it you swear or spit or dance.
The FCC'll charge you while you slip into a trance.
The Fcc'll charge you if you throw a rave or dirnk, if you are a slave... and think, if you own a car or fight, if you're missing one tailight, if you write poems, like me, then they'll ban you from T--
Under blankets and alerts, under padlocks we hide,
Under goverment sanctions, and coffeehouses, under SCREAMS AND YELLS OF
fundamentalist bul...
...Loney wasn't federally approved until it agreed not to expose a nipple during have time, or pretend to moon the nation once it won a game.
Everyone knows it's sex tapes now that get you all the fame.
Everyone knows the clebrity moans we hear through all the fuzz.
Ha, you aing't got no iPod man...
But my mother does.

I enjoyed reading it ."She sells cook books to Algeria" : this made me smile.
I would like to hear you reading it, izeveryboyin!.
Saludos,

Arcadia

hey thanks! Enjoyed writing it. If you come to Cabaradio this year... assuming Doreen and LRod are still having it, then I'll probably read it or summat. per your request.
--K

record a tape and send it to me i...!!, (I can send you chacareras, zambas or rock in return).
See you,

excellent! I'll try and see if i can dig up that fuckin tape recorder at my dad's and whip it up for ya!
---K

I did not get if you were against the bum making money off you with the star buck's cup, or is that you, or do you hate him. If you hate him, and everyone eles did he would not make any money and would have a shity life, is that your point? to that part at least.


When you wrote this did you know what you were trying to say? Or did it just come out-word assoiation?

I really enjoyed reading this.

I love the rythm of the first several lines, especially this:

She sells cook books to Algeria and fixes doll hair on her forehead; she wears Yellow-coated rainbows so the sun won't shine as bright

Liked this like a lot too:

She gets lost inside her woolen coat when it's 84 degrees

Love this line too:

She has tatoos on her arm that bear her name and kill her charm

Haha, I'll see your celebrity sex tapes and raise you a "face of (insert global corporation here)"

That's it, man. Fucking sex tapes and advertisments. Those are the highest things these morons in the public eye hope to achieve these days.

I refuse to get an ipod. I see legions of, for want of a better term, CUNTS with their little white earphones and little white wires. I'll stick with my minidisc player. It's almost retro now.

ax... I hate him, and I admire him. I wish I had the balls, the savoy... the time. I knew exactly what I wanted to say. I wanted that part of the piece to show how confused I was. I wasn't just pissed off with the fact that he's making money off a starbuck's cup when I can't. I was also acknowledging the fact that he's rich and doesn't work. That he's happy, and spends his day on a cold chicago street corner. I envy him, I hate him, I love him, I identify with him, I misunderstand him, etc. As for you, bennie, I'm right there witcha man, right there. I rock my vintage discplayer, I read my tattered moliere in french and misunderstand the words. I say down with iPod, and the global corparation. I'll raise you a nipple flash during halftime next year, right before I pretend moon the audience and overdue my make-up.
---K

Cartoons of man hood in the end zone
superbowl MMV

sad, I see old johnny Unitas standing there at the twenty yard in the high top black granny style football cleats, the blue and white numberr 19 shirt, and he is shaking his head in this can't possibly mean anything to you and benny, we live on other sides of a sea change, everywhere I seen the gone world and you all see it as it is now. my world is still balck and white,


drive on drive on dont mean nothing
bennie just a ramble

*gets stunned/stoner face on and goes "whooaaHH"*

She spits Tom Wolfe in bed and spills her caffeinated beverage on the freshly-washed linens.
She curses hellfire in freakish dreams while the lights are still on... and the broken Tv plays Gospel Radio w/the J-words bleeped out.
"I guess I'll just get syndicated and legalize free speech"
Elevation.

Yowza. Damn near beat poetics. (The real shit scares the F. out of frauds............)