Friday, March 5, 2010

Most of them are dead, Fred

What about you?

The L.A. Police won't return the bloody
clothes that Bobby Kennedy wore when
he was shot
but 40 yrs later they will put them
on exhibit for the public to view along with the
sensational artifacts from Manson, the Trailways Killer,
& sundry other horrors, like things from the wax museum or a good freak show
Bobby's family objects, but why?

Down the hallway, where I live, old Frank was murdered by his girlfriend, old Hannah, & - aside from removing them both & a few hours of scintillating gossip - it's quickly forgotten, & downtown a derelict was found dead in Little Tokyo to be removed
immediately never to be thought about again, & yesterday a bloated child was discovered dead in a dumpster in Glendale.

They're gone & forgotten. If L.A. can make use of Bobby's clothes, so what? It all means nothing. Everything is nothing, & so what?
so what ...


Eating a ton of red meat fried

with cabbage, I sop up the grease with
potato bread & swallow it all into my clogged
arteries

I unclog them with apple juice from Trader
Joe who trades me in for a greasy hooker

I swab out the grease
from my skillet & write a poem about heart attacks & death
a fly flits from my open fly (I didn't think anything was in
there) & lights on my heavy nose

a tank rumbles from my
left nostril, but the fly throws Capt Booger from the tank, tank you,
& drives the tank over the top of the Twin Towers
into the flowers a million floors below, tank you

my nose runs for its life into a celestial kleenex & blows up,
sending a geyser of snot into the
wild blue yonder to flounder
& founder down to splatter in the street,
where the cars slip & slide & crash to the side

I try to hide in a dumpster, but it's already stuffed full
of homeless making their home in America's mess, &
there's Capt Booger dying of loneliness, tank you, sucking
milk from his machinegun to wash down the babies he's
mercifully eating after the beating the
little ones take

the ones he can't eat are
fed to the snake, who's been on the
take ever since Eve, the love of his
life, whom he seduced

Adam he traduced & killed with a
Knife

so much for life in
the old days

nothing changes but a name
it's still the same
murder & maim

a silly old game, then
you're dead, Fred ...



Fritz Hamilton