The Chronic Malcontent
A zine for constructive complaining
A zine for constructive complaining
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| ARTSLIT 1999 |
| Desert Christmas 1990 Hark, the herald angels screech For peace on earth is hard to reach Peace on earth, while men are wild? Men and money reconciled. God rest ye merry gentlemen All you know is dismay There is no living thing on earth That rests this Christmas Day. Silent fright, deadly might, Armored angels course the night Ships and guns the harbors play Fantastic nightmares light the way. O little town of Bethlehem We see thee seethe with hate Your people cannot see God's love How turn you to your fate? We wish you an OK Christmas With hopes for health and fitness And wish that we all witness A better New Year. Copyright 1990 Sue Klaus |
| Works from Thom Kellar PERFECT WORLD In a perfect world The 4 faces chiseled in Mt. Rushmore would be Johnny, Kris, Waylon, and Willie OJ Simpson would be stamping out vanity plates alongside the unabomber in San Quentin. every wanna-be Doctor, Priest, and Lawyer, made to watch Paul Newman in "The Verdict" at least 50 times and a public school education would include mining the mother lode of irony found in the life and times of Muhammad Ali In a perfect world the Government would find it unnecessary to spend 50 million bucks trying to prove that the president committed adultery and lied about it. the NRA would wither up and die due to lack of interest, It's army of Lobbyist picked off one by one through random gunfire. all the camouflaged, soldier of misfortune, pin-headed, bubba-boys would collectively decide themselves not smart enough to exercise the right to vote. And every child would know deep and sustaining Love from those in charge of their care. In a perfect world I could lay all day on the beach soaking up Pacific Ocean Sun without burning my ass off. my 1970, Olds F-85, with the 396, would get better gas mileage the faster I drove it. like maybe 100 miles per gallon at 100 miles per hour. there would fantastic, hole in the wall, Mexican food joints on every street corner. with plenty of fresh Tortillas, Habeneros, and ice cold Negra Modelo and "Baby Doll" with the wandering eye, would magically see George Clooney every time she looked my way, causing her to re-think monogamy. DEAD MEN dead men don't care what the surgeon general thinks dead men drive around with no place to go dead men figure the come-on at the end of the bar, more trouble than she's worth dead men hold alcohol in a medicinal light dead men will sleep in their work clothes dead men never are never asked to RSVP dead men buy cars, and smokes, based solely on price dead men avoid eye contact at all cost dead men doodle on the obituary page dead men drive on bald tires with cracked windshields. dead men accept with resignation, the next day's hangover dead men listen to Coltrane, and Davis, start to finish, no interruptions dead men don't floss dead men will drink their Sake cold dead men don't sweat expiration dates dead men never wear bandages dead men are past blaming anyone dead men see horse-shit and diamonds the same dead men don't care where the candle-wax falls dead men forget what day of the week it is dead men can't get to sleep at night, can't wake up in the morning dead men have nothing in their hands dead men never ask another chance dead men have no need to make sense of anything dead men play dumb when they know they're being lied to dead men have made the connection between sorrow and desire after losing the thing he loves a dead man will spend the rest of his days anesthetizing the past pouring gasoline on the future dead men have no fear of dying the second time PRIMER GRAY Smoke ring in a windstorm old man with blindfold and cigarette at the university he had "shown promise" was called a "diamond in the rough" but the years have gotten away from him he pissed away his time now he waits for the phone to ring for Gabriel to call and ask if he has one last request from the beginning desire had been a map without names never sure where he was or where he was going change made for the sake of change point A to point B in a car painted primer gray he drank too much-slept too much read too much-chased "easy" too much never finished the book he had been writing for the last 24 years now the Rambler sits on blocks the manuscript lost somewhere in the attic he calls himself "invisible man on blue planet" the events of his life written in disappearing ink nothing to offer as evidence of having circled the Sun staring at the autumn sky, chain smoking, sipping tea, he waits for the angels to raise their rifles and take him home Copyright 1998 Thom Kellar |
