John L. Stanizzi Verse-Virtual 2017 July

July 2017

…still working very hard, futilely it seems, to stave off the insanity, find a place for the anger, do something constructive with such damaging negative energy, There are days when I’m consumed by the horror he continues to perpetrate on our world…this new poem is part of the result of attempting to channel that ugly vibe…

One Afternoon a Surreal Killer Is Born

…moments into the farcical march
the politicians dragged in
a gaggle of non-gyrating bodies
and tried to hasten their get-up-and-go
with charming radiation          distant theories
and a single cone of light the flavor of bomb-technology
but no one said a fucking word

the theater-goers --
dodging gunfire          naturally --
were aghast--

in earlier times
in former lives
the politics of circling justification
could be harvested with
little to no god

but now!
…well now
with pomposity impinging
on the unimaginable
--god bless us all--
it’s a wonder               isn’t it?
isn’t it a wonder
that his base embraces all that is reprehensible
sees it as invisible
this scandalousness is not nearly as putrescent
as the taste of last place bitterness

unification of boundaries
built by no one in particular
and with no methodical cries of luminosity
not even feigned
will still exist on the horizon
agleam with razor wire
and hot sun on the backs of leaping rapists in baggy pants

…anyway

…he says to the Director of the CIA
yo        if they ask you anything about that Russian stuff
don’t say shit               feel me?
and the Director of the CIA
desperate for the Heimlich Maneuver
spits out a boneless silk scarf
a satin covered spinal column
and a howl louder
than the cumulative screeches crouched behind the open gates
of depressed neighborhoods
in which no number of town council persons
can ever make a difference
ever again
regardless of the redness of their Walmart imitation alternative ties

when my frustration had reached its limitations
I consulted Steve Martin’s 1979 routine
and I proceeded to get really, really, really small

then I hid under the bloated mogul’s hair
and when he fell asleep
(oh Lord what an earsplitting fiasco that was!!)

when he finally began to nod off
in the blood bowl of snoreful sleepiness
and CPAP whoosh
swooning amid night terrors of orange freckles like crumbling skyscrapers
and press briefings overflowing with alternatives
where everyone in attendance
was toting an oxygen tank laced with placebo flunitrazepam,
and murmuring to each other
tales of the mysteriousness of the desire for tattoos shaped like liver spots
the bloated mogul finally tumbled
from the golden towers of wakefulness
into a dreamland where Russian beauties peed on him
a warm shower the color of October leaves
and while he grinned in his sleep
and dreamt of grabbing pussy
I made my move

By this time I was really small
and I slipped down his sputum-slickened lying gullet
and waited until my smallness wore off
waited until I expanded to my full terrible size

oh what a mess as the swollen swine detonated
splattering fatty chucks of alternative human flesh
all over the historical walls of the master bedroom
never knowing for a second what had hit him
(yes, that's the dream I imagined!)

he had been quoted once as saying
You know, I’m not a big sleeper.
I like three hours, four hours,
I toss, I turn,
I beep-de-beep,
I want to find out what’s going on."

you want to find out what’s going on?
really?

I’ll tell you what’s going on.

you’ve just been splashed all over the wall
like a boat load of canner grade beef
you low-life fraud
ZAP! POW!
a spattering of alternative fats….

Editor's Note: If this poem(s) moves you please consider writing to the author (email address above) to tell him or her. You might say what it is about the poem that moves you. Writing to the author is the beginning of community at Verse Virtual. It is very important. -FF