Blackhumouristpress's Blog

August 12, 2014

Sleep

Filed under: humor,poem — blackhumouristpress @ 6:58 am
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It’s never been clear to me, what will happen to me
Treading water in the sea of infinity.
It begins here and never ends. Right side, lop side a short ride
Through the tube of light.

It’s always worse at night contemplating the unseen, unknown, unsure reality
Somewhere out there with the trinity, Santa, tooth fairy and Easter Bunny.
What’s the expiration date? Fate, it’s worse at night waiting for sleep to come
And when it comes…

Shark week nursing home meals with Pol Pot
Broken bass strings on my upright, uptight
Flooding jeans, E Channel, English Channel, Sunday panel
Scratching heads trying to pin down what went wrong with
Winning hearts and minds
It’s a mine field of bills trying to stop me
From achieving, creating and surviving.
I just need to know how long it takes. Chasing a bus like a dog.
Swimming in an ocean with no land in view, racing a tornado in a field of wheat.
Dead relatives and a pat on the back. Faded memories dumped from a nap sack.
Stalin, Lennon, Ike and Nat Turner tell me to take it easy while we eat dinner. John sits next to George and declares we’re all sinners. From blank slates to tainted meat, I suddenly wake up from the heat. Sweating. Sleep comes hard with a busy mind.

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April 14, 2014

Democracy 6.0

Filed under: humor,poem — blackhumouristpress @ 7:17 am
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What’s the problem? A solution of verbal pollution – a mixture of something animal and mineral. Antibodies fighting hopelessly something viral, the next big thing to know is when we go while viewing it like a DNA spiral. We descend; let’s not pretend the word progress is bogus. Amelioration of contention? Suppression of aggression? The sun is shining as we bask in perpetual recession.

Oh Crimea river … Yellow liver caused by empty threats and hysteria. A verbal malady, we’re all a bit melancholy for the days of hammers and sickles, Ronnie and Contras, selling arms to enemies who housed hostages in our embassy.

The devil you know is better than the known unknowns that is to say we know what we know but can’t ever seem to say no. The sun never sets on American assets using the ruse of freedom and democracy 6.0- for those living in caves and living in holes.

Lead us not into the temptation to deliver us to another war to fight another evil. For thine is the kingdom and the power and glory for oil. Amen.

July 16, 2013

These Days…

Filed under: humor,poem — blackhumouristpress @ 7:03 am
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Strip the veneer of suburban strip mall hell
I can see it in the whites and the whites of their eyes
Don’t shoot! It’s just a hood.
I know what I should; it’s just so hard
2/3rds of everything cooked in lard
chemicals, animals and minerals
expanding waists and universe
comfort foods and depressed moods
suicide, Kardashian brides- choose the number two with two sides.

Use a Geiger counter to measure the pleasure
By buying this product
Guaranteed to bring results quicker than a microwave
Jesus saves, seismic waves, Obama legacy in the land of the free and home of the brave.
By the way- we know what you’re thinking, we know what you’re doing
You terrorist, anti-social activist. Encrypted scripted responses held close to the vest.
Try to hide what your thinking in these days of GPS

February 12, 2013

Supernova

Filed under: humor,poem — blackhumouristpress @ 8:21 am
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Have the audacity to hope that the cross hairs of the scope don’t shear the last fibers of that rope we cling to, we sing to because America has talent as it does empathy, knowledge and understanding that only a supernova can save us from global warming and ocean front property coming to Pittsburgh.

 

Preservatives additives and a laxative that helps us relax a bit from the chaos of the protestant work ethic, cut throat, only the strong survive, origin of species, mercury in our feces, survival of the fittest, standard bearer of the free world which all hope to emulate in their quest for freedom, wisdom and saturated fats while we kill to help free hearts and minds of people in a land that looks like Mars.

 

Iran and Iraq- Iraq-an the future looks grim.  What did we win?  Deposing the only tamers capable of keeping order in a land made of sand with dinosaur gold deep within made to fuel the new V-8 with televisions on the back of every headrests that cause our minds never to rest from the extra-sensory emissions of embedded code words that subliminally make us the great consumers that we are.

 

I had my right hand over my heart from the start before the super bowl while the meter runs on this super hole of money thrown into a black hole that builds and builds until it sucks everything in, explodes and creates that supernova- a brilliant ending that can be viewed from a far.

November 27, 2012

Thank You For Your Patience

Filed under: humor,obama,poem — blackhumouristpress @ 6:50 am
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Thank you for your patience when you’re in your car waiting in a stopped line and an Audi illegally comes racing up the right side.  He owns a car that costs more than your home, cars and timeshare.  Speaking of time, your time, he doesn’t fucking care.

Thank you for your patience when you wait at the Red Box behind the woman with the big ass who thinks she looks like Vivica Fox.  She knows your standing patiently waiting to rent Hello Kitty for your girls as she talks to herself, pops her gum and fucks with her fake Yak curls.

Thank you for your patience at the DMV.  Your number is 97 and they’re still on 23.  The angry woman behind the counter with the 80’s hair like Joan Jett, yells in the faces of foreigners who haven’t learned English yet.  Your tax dollars hard at work.  Be patient, they’ll treat you like a fucking jerk.

Thank you for your patience; your wait time is 28 minutes.  The kids are screaming, you’re driving and have reached your limit.  A human just came on the line and disconnected as you were saying hi.  Thank you for your patience, give it another try.  We’re closed now we open again tomorrow morning at nine.

Thank you for your patience with the economy.  It isn’t my fault; it was the guy before me.  There’s a lot to do constantly.  Now pardon me while I work on my legacy.

Thank you for your patience at the free hospital.  They can’t reject those uninsured, they take them all.  You may wait a full day in the lobby looking catatonic from a stroke.  This kind of shit happens when you’re broke.

Thank you for your patience is a bullshit line.  Nobody really values each other’s time.  The fucking terrorists created the TSA.  Fuck it; my flight has been cancelled anyway.  We know you have many choices and chose us to your dismay…  good luck getting home and have a nice day.

August 9, 2012

MC Puppet Master- 1% of that 1%

Filed under: humor,poem — blackhumouristpress @ 8:12 pm
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I’m that one percent of that one percent.  Millions are good and billions magnificent. Rise up, raging, hope and changing wake the masses, poor and working classes cause the tide is turning faster? Ha!  I’m the real puppet master.

 

Candidates pointing fingers in debates, fluxuating interest rates.  I make money when rains and when it shines.  Think it’s yours?  It’s mine.

 

I feed the elephants and feed the donkey, I’m the scariest motherfucking honkey.  I got an army that works for me.  I’m bigger than Mobile/ Exxon and BP.

 

To know me is to love me.  Red carpet, white glove me.  I could put the NBA and every rapping NWA and have the entire CIA in my deep pockets.  The rich own jets- I own rockets.

 

I’m the real Anglo-Saxon, my phone is blownin up from my cousin-the queen she’s relaxin at a quaint palace in London- nice place- I own mother fucking islands.

 

I own heads of state and real estate larger than Texas or Alaska and all other 50 states.  Your piece of the pie comes off my plate. People hate me but they need me.  I’m the one who makes the economy.  So how y’all feel knowing your just cogs in my wheel?

 

I’m that one percent of that one percent.  Millions are good and billions magnificent. Rise up, raging, hope and changing wake the masses, poor and working classes cause the tide is turning faster? Ha!  I’m the real puppet master.

April 30, 2012

The Gulf of Apathy

Filed under: humor,poem,Uncategorized — blackhumouristpress @ 6:36 am
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I want to look twenty-five forever

Malibu Pilates, a colonoscopy everything is good inside of me, behind me

Got passion, a sense of fashion waiting at Sears to see a real Kardashian

Its just mild anxiety about the complexity of the economy and the nosey neighbors next to me.  Dog piss on the rug, no eye contact or a hug from the wife, suburban life, bored offspring hate me but love to take Ecstasy.

A 600 lb woman on the screen, lean cuisine, P90X, mind blowing sex and people catching catfish with their hands.

More stars than grains of sand, universe growing, Serengeti wildebeest and plastic in the oceans and on the beach, deep wrinkle cream and cock enlarging potions.

Disney, history, mystery, military, unwrapping King Tut, developing a Brazilian butt

Juice, blend, chop, shop silver, sex toys, wealth without risk, Ru Paul and other chicks with dicks. My sleep number, look fit this summer.  Jimmy Kimmel, Jimmy swarggart, the roll of Erwin Rommel and a 12 disc set by Merl Haggard.

It is a virtual rodeo and a makeover, a subliminal take over with hidden messages masked as information and entertainment.  High definition low retention emptying minds and oozing radiation.  Televised real time closed caption of the rapture brought to you by your friends at BP- bridging the Gulf of Apathy.

November 12, 2011

The Beat Your Ass Cafe

 

Patrice Fort was born and raised in a really small town that most people never heard of in Alberta.  For those of you in the states, Alberta is a province, which is sort of like a state except that it is not a state.  The Fort family slowly moved from the Plaines of Abraham near Quebec City and over the years kept moving west like the Mormons in search of a new town called Springfield.  The Forts wound up in no place Alberta.

Fort, if you know the French language, means strong and Patrice was the epitome of a Cro-Magnon man of the modern age.  Patrice was a hair over six feet tall and weighed 250 lbs.  Patrice was a solid mass of muscle like a human pit-bull.  At a young age, Patrice learned that his ice hockey skills were mediocre at best.  Patrice was not fast and did not make the best decisions on the ice nor did he have the best shot.  Patrice was able to fight and from the age of thirteen, Patrice never lost a fight.

The thing that scared people most about Patrice when they were faced with fighting him was that there was no anger or malice.  It was just something he was born and bred to do and so he would pummel opponents who messed with the premier players on whatever team he happened to be playing on.  It was during juniors that life suddenly changed for Patrice.

Patrice’s Quebec junior team had gone south to New York City to play in a tournament sponsored by some bank that no longer exists in the states.  Patrice had never been to a city as large as New York and had never imagined so much humanity crammed into such a small space in a place like Manhattan.  Patrice went into a Starbucks and ordered a tall hot chocolate and watched the unique people that walked down the sidewalk near Times Square.   From the Starbucks window, for Patrice it was like watching a freak show at the circus. There were so many different types of people, in varying sizes and shapes. An older woman of about sixty years of age came up and spoke to Patrice in a way he had never heard before.  Even though the woman was older, she was shapely and confident.

“Many years have come and gone man and you’re one of the last relics of the Neanderthal period, man.  All swelled up with muscles and I suppose you never took one supplement… Man, dig that crazy tune.”

Herbie Hancock was playing Cantaloupe Island over the speakers in the Starbucks.  The woman put her hand on Patrice’s large forearm and closed her eyes as the song played.  Patrice looked at the strange woman and sort of dug the tune that softly played.

“People are always saying that this or that is the shit.  I’m here to tell you that this is the true shit, man.  You weren’t around when this shit was devised.  People were swinging to Benny Goodman and then cats like Herbie came round and opened people’s eyes to music that could speak without words.  1964, we all thought the world would end, man.  Kennedy killed and a cowboy with his hands on the nuclear button, man.  Beatles came and what did they say?  They said too much but listen to this here, man.  I know you can feel it, cave man,  baby…  I bet you’re hung like a horse.”

It was the first time that Patrice had ever had sex with a woman and the woman was older than his own mother and twice as shapely.  There were very few sags and lumps on the old Beatnik woman. They made love, if you want to call it that, several time over the course of an afternoon while listening to cool Jazz and hearing the woman read Beat Poetry by Ginsberg and Kerouac.  Patrice left the small basement apartment in Manhattan and was never the same.

As the years went on, teammates came to understand that Patrice was a bit out there but they respected the difference.  And wouldn’t respect a man who could kill them with his bare hands.  On planes and trains, Patrice listened to Coltrane, Miles Davis and Thelonius Monk through earphones and wrote poetry.

What colour is blue when the sky is gray.  Walk down the streets of Detroit like I came from Mars, come to visit bars full of coulorful coloured folk and they think they know me because the press wants to own me, ride me, pride me like a pony and it’s phony.  Won’t eat gluten. I’m free like Putin who wants to keep Russia from anarchy after the fall of The Wall and Soviet dynamo.  The Red Army Team came to town when I was young.  Ate biscuits and drank coffee in a vast land.  I followed the road from Alberta to everywhere, man.  Everywhere is nowhere and yet I’m somewhere between where I should be and where I am.  Sit in the shade  sipping wine no words to this Monk tune that rolls through my mind.  If the colour blue is true, I hold out hope for me and you…  Coltrane, last train try in vain…  Gonna sit outside in Portugal or Spain and write a few words on the balcony in the rain…  Rinse and repeat that, Cat.

 

Now to you and I, words strung together such as this meant little or nothing.  A long stream of unconsciousness.  Patrice was traded from Phoenix, to San Jose to Boston and then went to Nashville and landed in Detroit at minimum wage for the NHL.  The Detroit Red Wings were a finesse team that really did not need a lug or a goon to go out and fight to protect the true hockey players of the team.  The fighters were an outdated necessity from days gone by of clutch and grab hockey a la Philadelphia in the 1970’s.  Detroit grabbed Patrice and never really played him until one day against Chicago, a heated rival who happened to be winning the game and taunted the Detroit team.  The Detroit coach, Mike Babcock, nodded to Patrice, who on his first shift, beat up two Chicago players and mistakenly punched a referee.  From that point on, Patrice had a home in the hearts of Detroit Red Wing fans.

Most people don’t know the story behind the finger snapping when Patrice takes the ice.  To those from out of town or watching on Versus, it may sound like the theme from the Adams Family is being played.  Before long, large groups of Beatnik poetry types who frequented Patrice’s café in the Detroit suburb of Hamtramck, began going to Detroit Red Wing games, wearing jerseys that had the name FORT on the back.  Scruffy faced young men who appeared to be anti-sports, showed up wearing Red Wing jerseys, snapping their fingers violently whenever Patrice got on the ice or fought.  Before long, everyone got in on the act.  It was like throwing octopus on the ice.

After home games in Hamtramck on Jos Campau there is a Beatnik café where people drink and read poetry to Jazz.  It is called, Beat Your Ass Café.  It is nothing more than an old Polish watering hole that Patrice bought to host poetry readings and feature live Jazz.  On the walls are pictures of some of Patrice’s best fights with the dates and names of opponents. Patrice usually appears after games and reads his latest poetry while young Jazz musicians play behind him and others.  It is standing room only after Red Wing games.  Dig that.

August 11, 2011

The Next Beat

Filed under: humor,poem,Uncategorized — blackhumouristpress @ 2:10 am
Tags: , , ,

Sangria Maria, don’t know no Jazz

she discovered Bossa Nova at Starbucks one day

don’t like no mondays cause you know Saturdays

are for sundaes like whip cream and fluff.  Read the

papers about that stuff.  This is up and that’s down

obituaries and the funnies and some coupons for the buffet.

A smorgasbord of taste, smell and sound.

Dig that young cat with the mascara and the hair covering

his eyes.  Despondent resident of a subdivision and momma

always had food in the pot.  He learned them power chords

gonna make a band.  Don’t want no conventional stuff.

Full of angst and anger about all kinds of stuff.  You know

them southern California kids was so mad once upon a time

with their Punk Rock.  Now they got the perfect life, a mortgage, kids

and shapely wife.  Crack open the wine they bought at Napa for the

company.  Jim is a swell guy and a great golfer.  He might want to swap

wives for the night.  No need to trade lives.  Got the same cars, same homes,

same distant children with everything they used to have when there was real Punk Rock.

Drop the needle on some Black Flag or Fear and call your old girl on your momma’s

rotary phone. Momma was always there when daddy was busy.

Daddy was a Mason and an Elk, Republican and Presbyterian and a little Welsh.

You ain’t gonna get old and you ain’t gonna die but if you do, they got it all picked out for you.

Next to nice trees by some shade not far from the interstate and a billboard about 4Gs.

Because in the circle of life, they ain’t no corners.

Just the things that go around and come around.  No real forest, hill, groves

or real parks except for the industrial ones with their industrial strength.  More caffeine, less stress, less pressure,

more leisure  more comfortable shoes and a numbers when you sleep next to Sangria Maria after Tapas Tuesday

with Swell Jim and his wife in this comfortable life in that tract home in every town in every state…  No matter the state you’re

in.

June 28, 2011

The American Nursery Ryhme

Filed under: humor,poem,Uncategorized — blackhumouristpress @ 3:55 am
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Humpty dumpty sat on Wall Street.  Humpty Dumpty had an unprecedented fall.
All senators and congressmen tried to bail out Humpty again.  Cause when it’s raining, it’s pouring and stocks look flat in the morning.
 
Yankee Doodle came to town  riding in a Humvee
Winning the hearts and minds and forcing them to democracy.
Yankee doodle keep it up, like fishing in a phone booth
Spend money you do not have, send the deficit through the roof.
 
Hey diddle diddle, syringe just a little while grandma cooks in a spoon.  Three bags full; one for the master, one for the dame and one for the banker who drives down the lane.  Mix it up and make it nice,  A penny for a little rock, a penny for a needle.  That’s the way the money goes.  Pop! Goes the Weasel.  
 
 This was the woman all forlorn that milked the system, that tossed the kids into the street to sell drugs and sell their bodies, to make money to buy the drugs and slay in the house that crack built.
 
 Hush little baby don’t say a word, daddy’s past out on Thunderbird.  If that Thunderbird sings, momma’s gone pawn a diamond ring.  If the ring ain’t nothing but brass, somebody will hafta sell some ass.
 
Arnold parnold pudding pie, knocked up the house maid and told a lie.
 Liar liar, pants on fire catch Eliot and Tiger by the toe, if they cry let them go…  In fact maybe just give him their own show.
 
A diller , a dollar, you were going to be a scholar, Why do you sleep so late?
You used to get up to go to work and now you’re on Section 8.
 
Jack sprat is getting fat and his wife is hardly lean.  His arteries filling up and national health care is nothing but a dream.
Coast to coast, LA to Chicago who cares about geography?  Freedom to find and choose for yourself your form of pornography.
 
If all the world were paper and all the sea were ink, if all the trees were bread and cheese, what should we have to drink?
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