Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof

Archive for the ‘Uncategorized’ Category

Excerpts from News is Entertainment and Entertainment is Work

In Joe Brooks, Uncategorized on October 24, 2010 at 4:05 am

Joe Brooks

In honor of the passing of my friend, I am republishing my Joe posts

These are excerpts from “News is Entertainment and Entertainment is Work,” which was built out of email exchanges with my friends, including Joe.

Oh, man — “Segway.” Jesus. Joe, tell them your know how to “rite” like “kreyzee” “cuhz” “U” “A” “D” “baughme.” And explain to them that you do not want to have to jump up with them merely because you have been slamming and jamming on their old ladies’ funks. Instead perhaps you could all go out and catch some jumpies. Word to the mother. Man, I’d love to see Joe’s script for a 30 minute teen show set in an SF club. I imagine there would be robots . . .

I don’t think there’s any need to book a room. If I get a message back saying: Joe is creep, no Joe, then we will look for the Do-You-Got-Five-Dollars-For-Gas-For-My-Car-I-Godda-Get-To-Gilroy-Man-My-Fuckin-Cousin-Was-Subos’ta-Put-Gas-In-Man-Phew-Wait-Til-I-See-That-Mutherfuckr-Again-I’ll-Fuckin-Kick-His-Ass Motel in downtown Boiling. Until then, presume a nestling into the sneaky sheets of downtown Kangauterus Inn . . . Read the rest of this entry »

the boys i mean are not refined

In Uncategorized on July 14, 2010 at 9:34 pm

ee_cummings poets american_poets

the boys i mean are not refined
they go with girls who buck and bite
they do not give a fuck for luck
they hump them thirteen times a night

one hangs a hat upon her tit
one carves a cross on her behind
they do not give a shit for wit
the boys i mean are not refined

they come with girls who bite and buck
who cannot read and cannot write
who laugh like they would fall apart
and masturbate with dynamite

the boys i mean are not refined
they cannot chat of that and this
they do not give a fart for art
they kill like you would take a piss

they speak whatever’s on their mind
they do whatever’s in their pants
the boys i mean are not refined
they shake the mountains when they dance

ee cummings

Big Time Poetry Theatre Presents: Poems for Men

In Uncategorized on July 3, 2010 at 12:32 am

RIP, Lux Interior

In Rock and/or roll, Uncategorized on February 9, 2009 at 2:39 am


I only found out tonight that Lux Interior died last week. Lux was very cool to me, a young journalist and punk rock fan, when I interviewed him for a profile on Miami New Times. I wondered if it were still online and found out it was. I think Psychotronic Reaction is the best story I ever wrote. I meant every word. The world is not as good now that Lux is gone.


by Curt Hopkins
For the Miami New Times
March 5, 1998

Currently being posited as an alternative to the mournful noisy rock out of the suddenly loathed Northwest are all kinds of Good-time Joe’s Toe-Tappin’ Jug Band-type nonsense — as though the opposite of morbidly paralyzing introspection were witless grinnin’. Well, there’s another option that has yet to be seriously considered: kicks.

Kicks can be innocent and beautiful, they can be ugly, creepy, or dangerous, but they have no place in the Mall of America and they don’t belong in city hall. Kicks are where you find them and you often find them underground. That’s where the Cramps live.

Read the rest of this entry »

Seminal Logic To A Belly Hole

In Uncategorized on January 21, 2009 at 4:05 am

Love lip trippingingly swan dive to
secondary motions in chandelier skin
—I think of Marxism as a sexist joke on myself—
“Scrumpdillyishus!” quoth she chucking down my wrinkled sack
to the delicious toad drippings of her snack,
T-shirts stuffed with scribbles in black.
Isaac the Cossack is the buff chick about town;
“Nice bag of marbles, Bobby,” he promised, withdrawing the baguette.
“Nick, Nick, my Pincers of Bagwan,” stealthily—
Hey-wann-ah, hey-wann-ah ho,
you’re the waxpaper Santa of my wandering toes.
Alert the pirates, my desk is round

Beam Me Up, Scotty, There's No Intelligent Life On This Pantsuit

In Uncategorized on January 21, 2009 at 3:49 am

It all started when I couldn’t shave the Cuban
Instead mayonnaise plastered my gums as I smoke
Buttering me up in the home of ex-president Truman
Fuck the begonias, Save your land!
He then began to sort the anal beads
as crystal cottonballs snap! I stand naked from the waist down to your song
watching 9 one-minute managers humping a bar-b-que
Toilet poster! Toilet poster!


In Uncategorized on January 21, 2009 at 3:27 am

Forget lithe spleen habits in song
decorate the garrulous limb with homicide
can you peel lost pulpmeat so long?
Sure I can, imam, stoney peach part
it’s hard to angle rods and cones and start
pilfer petticoats scratching rheumy time
forward to part, coalesce in King Kong
twist me up a dooby, Cal, drink insecticide
Hand me a poodle, I want to feel aligned
to the Axis, split, ballpeen is fine
Gilgamesh has lunged for the twister mat
Slap, apparently, look to nibble and long
in my heart for a steamed milk enema lied
ten minutes ago I touched a hamster and cried

Down By The River

In Uncategorized on January 21, 2009 at 3:25 am

Ibbly: beveled morphology and a snack tuna on cables.
Smack me so it leaves a mark. My interior is pox-ridden
and smooth of squeeze it reheats the dusty chops.
One warm breast spills out of a turtle neck.
Click shut the refrigerator door, cleaving the soy patty,
falling limp as tissue into the freshwater mainstream squirming
from the crinkled tube.
Watch on the freeway the tires unravel into sparks and ha ha death:
30 ballpeen shots to the noggin.


In Uncategorized on January 18, 2009 at 4:07 pm

Scraping by by me something along the tracks,
a gelatinous grouping in the shape of a TV personality,
ochre eye shadow cascading grim red tie
punt like pool-shark lampshade cookie-poodles
paddles soap pining gimpy nuts soccer for free
siccing the dog on the sick limpy nut vendor
laying soaky bun blisters over the side
Fall like a leaf from the sea.

Hey Davy Crockett!

In Uncategorized on January 18, 2009 at 3:36 pm

Eve of St. Agnes—they swam the platter like a log
Ding-dong, the poodle baron. A day-care center Thursday
and I am standing on the back porch facing sideways
Macreasa inside, dollop in the bean pot
Crispy chitlins—they sell bananas like a freeway
And spin a sweatshirt from plum juice and ocean
Saddled like a midget’s buttocks this life of ours
is really important and conforms to my warm insect
Bring me forty streetsigns, fire me a gross
of beetle sympathy and tired pancakes, to
the rictus of my emotional heartstring ruptures
and floods Macreasa’s dress with our first child
Lastly sinful like a magpie on vacation,
How many rabbits can hide in a desk-clerk’s hair?
holding two lizards like drumsticks or music
clogs and clots the plain ham of our life together
And like Jesus at the cycle-barn, and Pharaoh eating stone
I bought a shirt with a timber locket stolen from a telephone pole
Ruptured rubber gadgets sprinkled on my neck and
pulled-out backbone lay down on plastic
hairpiece dreamed especially for Mother Earth