Joe Kennedy

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 “THE SLOW TYRANNY OF MOONLIGHT”
The theme from an old western wafted through the big room like the faint smell of pancakes after a long winter of old potatoes and rusted hinges creaking in a frigid gloom of dusk
the sound welcome after the relentless drone of the machine the one keeping the swollen interior at constant sensation not too much not too little the tonal rudder of the thing unchanging an autistic pianist obsessed by the striking of the one key without pause
bifurcating my viscera gelding my ungendered gonads pissing on the sheen of my serenity
I wanted to find the source of that singular discord and defenestrate it the sonic frowst
of the mezzo-soprano whatever eating at the edges of my virtue the one I never had in the first place.
I wanted to throw an old jockstrap at it, order it some bad clams and make it suck em’ down.
I wanted to buy it a lifetime subscription to Readers Digest.
Oh, oh wait! That’s my punishment, that’s my beat-down, my Chinese water torture, it doesn’t have a brain, no awareness, no self-consciousness, no brain cells to rub together, it’s just a motor, a noise box, moving parts repeating its task, a sonic meditation I found irksome, yeah
that was it, I was irked, it should be the other way round, silent, quiet, still, but it isn’t. Shit.
Inside myself I tried bonding with it, breathing, accepting, caressing, crocheting.
My feet hurt. Suddenly I got that fat feeling like I just downed a gallon of ice cream and couldn’t move. A harbinger of doubt tickled my innards, and suddenly I was in the cut, surfing, robot seagulls moaning dizzily above, the twilight singing, sea creatures without eyes calling my name, I knew I was dead, and yet quite alive, kissing a sonic boom box of pure love, a popsicle of purity, an envelope mailed by a mime holding a seamless message inside.
– Joe Kennedy
(Joe writes & reads his witty poetry in Los Angeles)
© 2013

“Banana Bebop” by Joe Kennedy

 

 

 

She smells free hell down by a tree sore.Buy me a wrist watch willya? Can’t come? Don’t call me banana breath Buster. Tongue-ing a toupee while guys fry the time clock flat,taking shots torque-ing a camshaft into cosmic sync.Boy that Duster could fly! Aheming his way down an aisle of patrons sweating in the dark waiting for the feature to blaze into sightline, the lion’s roar, the popcorn stale,Dick Powell running game on Ida Lupino,his putt drifting just short of the cup,having to settle for a discount coupon back to charm school.Buying luggage for the scout troop,just like the square G he truly smelled like,deep in the square footage of a low nap glow lamp green carpeted swamp somewhere in Beaumont Texas.Gator grill staring back with a “what are you looking at” flaming kamikaze Buick squatting curbside,cooing,”steer me onto Route 66,no one will catch us,jump jerk-off.Come on,move,not having the whole day and stuff.”Fried,wrung out raw,calcified,mistaken for living,not knowing,chorklit frosting from doorknob dressing,bebop fressing,past a truck stop lit up like day,rolling past the neon oasis into the pitchblack starshine buying no time,sinking tire-grip on asphalt slab,donuts frying in a veggie oil pond,bumper pooling against the sides,waiting for the maple bacon crash landing it desperately needed to make a sendoff supreme.Sky-rocketing onto tastebuds drag racing to the wire.Blastoff! Sometimes good tastes like more and that’s what that was! Greasy fried eggs on top next time.Hahahahaha. finito.

Joe Kennedy

L. K. Thayer’s Foto Fetish

© 2011