Eddie Arana, Rick Thibodeau, & Chris Bakunas San Diego, Ca. March 2012

Eddie Arana, Rick Thibodeau, & Chris Bakunas San Diego, Ca. March 2012
Eddie Arana, Rick Thibodeau, & Chris Bakunas at Luche Libre Taco Shop in San Diego, March 2012

Friday, January 6, 2012


I have experienced the worst minds of my generation worshipped by a media-mad, entertainment starved hysterical populace,
plopping themselves in front of the LCD flatscreens until dawn looking for an easy twist,
lunkheaded stieners itching for the newest imaginary confection from the dumpster of the machinery of glamorwood,
whose prostrations and abashments and glassy-eyed adulations and just thrown up musings in the extraordinary staleness of pointless stats rolling across the screens of T.V.'s prostituting drivel, who trust their hopes to affirmations under the Yew and saw Aegean Brummel's flirting with plastered fools consummated,
who moshed with suburbanites wearing rectangular blue ties harboring Anarchist and Bolshevik tendencies gleaned from the Ivory Academics
who were embraced by the scholars for Jay-Z & pornographic Eminem raps on the bathroom walls of the priory,
who soured to glittering grooms in underwear, using their parents money like waste paper and blistering their ears to the Melvins and Nirvana in the hall
who gut-busted in the seaside bars rerunning the lyrics through bongloads of marijuana for lack of worse,
who sat tired in chiffon robes or shrank cashmere sweaters in overheated dryers, delighted, or perhaps played deuces with a girl for a fixed-gear bike
with trees, with shrubs, with pruning shears, shovel and rake and mossrock walls,
imitations of Howard Stern's Stuttering John and feral in the wilds of Chicago & Philadelphia, cluttering all the meaningless words of Clement Greenberg,
Passionate solitudes of hills, recorded using free parabolic microphones, Peggy Guggenheim pulling out all the stops, miserable in an Edinburgh of three hundred closing pubs and shrinking towards oblivion, rum and gin and vodka libations in the crummy Arby's Bronco's glasses of plastic, caustic paintings and rude pen tight of line,
who cheered Tebow to goalposts for the playoff ride from 1-4 start to holy Broncos in backwards still among the remaining twelve and chastised by arguing phone-ins troubled and alarmed at the bull-rushed and bettered Steel of Pittsburgh all eleven in the second fight of Jan,
who flew all night in Superman tights of polyester fitted out and stitched to the strapping beefcake buffoon in Four-Color Comics, leering at the gates of Gamorrah bending over to help out a harlequin,
who stalked laboriously sluty ol' whores of Fiddlesticks bar to Ecks to Sharks to the Golden Door, a cast medallion for plastic surgical enhancements turning frowns of silicon into frozen grins of silly putty on empty slates over a polymer goon,
backpacking beseeching harping shouting trivia and minutiae and candy coats and needle pricks and lots of cartwheels and hearts and souls, toll bridges ignored on canyon hikes of several days and nights with flabby thighs, chafed on the material denim of the adornment,
when banished into now and then meanderings losing a tail of ambitious patrolling postmen with advanced gout hell,
surfing Internet websites and chat room ass-kissings and usernames of 9gagers over and under-rating the reposter’s best funniest ruses, how wasted attempt after attempt was mistaken for a rocketing thought balloon as too good, and warped, leveling the beaten Turks, Frodo bit his toes to nibs on bigscreens bigscreens bigscreens racking up millions in dough fortune for some charms of transatlantic flight ,
who tripped Asimov for Clarke when his manic empathy ran rock a rollah in between the stereos indescribably delicious on the street like Manasseh's,
who phoned it in from the retreat in Mexico ducking illusionary cromagnon demons who rode illusionary cromagnon demons, who brought the only bag of worm gummies sugared in diabetic-crazed agony,
who slumped in blue jeans with the Lithuanians of Colorado on the imperfect ol' weary misguided staggering midtown train,
who lunged haphazardly and lumbering through Aerobics lessons of pop or rock or hip-hop, and flipped off the bastard blatantly to crush all thoughts about amiable and friendly, a talented cast, but still not inspired theatrical,
whose underwear was thrown voluntarily to Pixies showing bare behind breathing with not a covering of pantaloons and the legs and ass of pretty screen queens in frozen Minneapolis, who was weird on the Fest Circuit gyrating their hips in beads and skirts with long passionate lies meshing into dirty scorn listing out unreadable pamphlets,
who soured on Cinco de Mayo and the charms protecting the narcissistic tortured boys of Discordance,
who debuted Supersymmetry theories at Harvard Yard posed by Sakita and Gervais while the stirrings of Miyazawa worried no one, and worried everyone, and the Student Body doubles also worried,
who quoted from Byron in full 4-dimensional reduced and non-massive selectivity the shittery of other manifolds,
who fit deadbolts to the pierced ears of protesters in squattercamps for habitually non-working beatniks that own what Mommy and Daddy and Grandpa bequeathed them,
who toweled off their wet cats in the stairwell and turned dragsters in the road weaving curves into g-strings,
who sent the missives to Jung in the hopes for the Divine psychoanalysis, and beamed with pride,
who drew and were drawn by the hated expressionist, the smudgers, careless of archaic and curmudgeon art,
who stalled on the highways in the Ramblers in Chevrolets and the Fords of putrid purples and chartreuse scarlet that seeped fluids onto wide roads up this way,
who chatted seamlessly on Omegle but couldn't start with a call anytime to a patriot in a Persian Rug Store when the bloated & sated gourmand came to pig out with a spoon,
who tossed their cookies to the four blue shades of blue the one with shades of the aquamarine pallor the one with shades like water out near the west and the one with shades that dries to light and last but not least the shade of French Cerulean the international pigment blend of the synthetics metallic,
who copied everything and anything with a crayon of charcoal a pencil a pen of colored inks a conte and finished off the canvas, and quickly lined up some more and frowned at the dog and blended frantically all the contrast with a wedge of rolled paper towel and some eraser that just glanced the surface,
who stiffened the quills of a thousand brushes washing in the suds and soap, and were dried out in the sunbeam but softened to repaint the swirls of the soda can, foregoing details like clarity and composition in the haste,
who conked out snoring all through the movie on Mary's living room sofa, R.T., noted buddy of these bosoms, craftsman and Artist of Diego—jive like a turkey with his immeasurable plays on words in connect the dots & paper crosswords, swapmeets’ bargain rows, on Flattop in Alaska or with great finessable honor in contact bridge strategically bidding advantages & positioning favorably placed tricks of Ace, & Queen maybe a King,
who partied out in little squirrel's dormitories, were covered in screens, spoke of a stiff Cosmopolitan, and packed their things up out of engagements held-over with thankless Tories and humours of Meth Junkies inside jokes & stampeded to unusual opportunities,
who waited all night with their noses frozen to the flagpole socks warming toes as an actor in a West End play opens to a standing-room only crowd and delirium,
who played out boorish melodramas in the apparent belief ranks of the Huguenots under the religion blurred spotlight of the goon & their breathen should be cowed with laughter in derision,
who date the last few of the Emerson's and delighted the court at the Taj Mahal of the counties of Jefferson,
who swept up the remainders of the strumpets with their pushbras full of tissues and rap music,
who dealt in aces bringing in the full house that Eric "the Kid" Stoner needed, and lost up to big Howard a straight diamonds with the jack,
who crashed on the carpeted floor of Hillary covered with cat hair even in the semicircular tray of sweet sugars with a strange chocolate and lemony ,
who dribbled all night looking and leaping down court incessantly with the Vitella yelling I'm open I can make the basket,
who looked ready reliable full-bodied fleet foot boyish & pimply desiring of the bonita Monraz Senorita,
who plugged along in their sweatpants yearning for the day,
who picked their coins up off the street in cans their dollars in large bottles outside of Vons, & fishing poles held in their hands sunny days in the summer days,
who washed their clothes with coca-cola repeatedly successfully, getting out grime and oil found in carnival rides and midway strides where they slaved as they were growing old and tired,
who were born to live in their brother's flannel shirts handed down jeans tho' spurts of growth vexed & taxed-up matter of the iron-on patches of felt & the noticeably too-short high-waters of advanced age & the miserable rags of corduroy making silence impossible, or worse yet dungarees from the disabled vets thrifts of Lomita & Spring Valley,
who climbed up the Devils Cliff this sorta happened and always played in caves and ravines into the dusky canyons of Deep Dale with pollywogs & garter snakes, no one even giving a care,
who hung out of coveralls in disrepair, still stout like those fat German fellows, lumpy in the fatty Posterior, crept on tiptoes, dried milk all over their feet, cried for Amy Winehouse's harassed crash into phony discords of melodramatic tragic 1980s Brit pop startled and frisky and grew up leaning into the big government tit, stones in their nostrils and the waste of colossal tax boondoggles,
who stared down the barrels of the past yearning to teach Brother’s vision-donkeypin tale-crowded house or Liverpool brass incantation,
who dove haphazardly twenty four meters to seek out if I had a fish on or you had a fish on or he had a fish on to fish out Mac Murray,
who heel-toed it to Lakewood, who lived in Lakewood, who knocked 'em back in Lakewood & played in the rain, who walked all over Lakewood & bar-be-cued & grilled in Lakewood and finally sent away to pick out the Truth, & now Lakewood is poorer for losing Jackson's,
who sell what should be freebies in dope-filled ratholes straying from some Other’s affection and slightly tanned breasts, until the bowl college January bet share for some attention,
who stashed borrowed wind chimes in cells texting for irascible ner'-do-wells with amber beads and the thorn of piety in their socks who swapped street ludes to Marketroid,
who reverted to puberty to justify a video, or Rocky Balboa to tender Mister T or Silverware to brass or whispered specific to the stacked waitress at Baker St or Jose O'Shea's or Westwood or the Dairy Queen or El Tapitios,
who remanded that gritty neo sound to that lay it down clown & were right with their regularity & their bands & a hanging party,
who spew remembered mantras at STP concerts on Red Rocks and frequently embeded the shelves in the hallowed halls of the greenhouse with Useless Heads and pushpin tweaks of bromide, reciting Teenage Lobotomy,
and who were driven inside the corrugated box of insulted 'Mats fans professedly psychopharmocology devotional polarity singsong & fantasia,
who in luminous goldcrest unconcerned with the alcoholic Doctor hardly able, residing chiefly in La Junta,
rerunning years of truly bad television for ad revenue of booze, and beers and tacos, to the invincible handyman dudes of the world of the shantytowns of the Waste,
Plimsoul's straight out of Bernardino’s and Temecula’s fractured hills, thriving with the buzzles of the Hickmen, roosted and rostered in the bright light latitude-beach driven-dunes of Diego, strived for a wife with dark hair, ecstasies burned like scones in ovens too long,
with neighbors finally #^$@%, and the first iconoclastic kook laid out on the surrealistic pillow, and the Maserati clocked at 4mph. and the past glorified dammed at the well on the sly and the most famished son wolfs down to the last piece the meager order of churros, a fellow twinkle toes tapping on a wild strangers bedpost, and if it seems a little arid, nothing but a helpful little bit of lubrication—
ah, Laurel, where you were not shaved I am not shaved, but now you’re fully into the alopecia all of the time—
and what thereabouts can truly stop happy feet shod with the wooden clog of the Scandinavian of the Nordic of the blonde fantastic a voracious valkyrie with the affordable plans,
who looked and mapped insubstantiate traps in Newsweek & Playboy through metaphysical locks, and bounced the stylus of the gods betwixt 42 illustrated pages and darned the argyle socks and sown the row and word of confusion bitter pumping with sensation of father weakened limited man to orchestrate an alter-ego and masquerade of some meta-human role and shout fore! so clueless and classless and reeking of buffoons, dejected but embracing with the warmth of countless fireflies the ribbon of truth in his bald and bareass head,
the Sailor Jerry rum and art snobs in Taos, forelorn, sit pouting downbeat with maybe a little too much intensity to appreciate breath,
and violet abomination in the underground homes of Glasgow in the wellworn candle of the barra and rung the cymbal of Tami’s sharpened wit for lack unto of wooly wooly googly googly pepperoni forever alone guy what shoveled his pieties down to the last teardrop
with the resolute heat of the frozen banana covered in chocolate only to gell to a mush on the dashboard that day.
What cashiers of Costco and King Soopers rang up the manna and gave up their grains and libation?
Tick Tock! Fortitude! Strength! Beauty! Politicians and buttondown collars! Waters streaming under the highways! Toys bobbing in bathtubs! Hang ten surfing in the oceans!
Artemis! Artemis! Golden hair of Artemis! Artemis the huntress! Virginal Artemis! Artemis the eternal goddess of wilderness!
Artemis the indescribable mythos! Artemis the Grecian created veneration and object of worships! Artemis whose origins are in Paximadia! Artemis the wild protector of childbirth! Artemis the twin sister of Apollo!
Artemis whose aim is true in archery! Artemis whose bow is borrowed from Lipara! Artemis whose arrows are tipped golden! Artemis whose brother is of truth and prophecy! Artemis whose home is a smoldering ruin!
Artemis between whose thighs is hung the greenest mistletoe! Artemis whose eyebrows creep along her forehead like endless caterpillars! Artemis whose features lean and crooked like a log! Artemis who's really stacked and nobody can deny those mammaries!
Artemis whose salad is olive oil and lettuce! Artemis whose goal is authenticity and poise! Artemis whose prosperity is the currency of fluency! Artemis whose date is a clod of sexstarved androgen! Artemis whose fame is the Mystery!
Artemis in whom I fit lovely! Artemis in whom I dream Claudia's! Comfy in Artemis! Telstar in Artemis! Lackland and Holloman in Artemis!
Artemis who exited by Spenard & Lois! Artemis in rooms Freudian conspiciously drinking a Shot, whiskey! Artemis who enlightened me of foolish supernatural error! Artemis whom I embrace! Sleep well with Artemis! Smoke streaming out of the rye!
Artemis! Artemis! Cloned body parts! invincible cowards! Skyline libraries! bonita grandes! harmonic convergencies! Special K rations! Thibodeau birdhouses! The gun cocks! mustache combs!
They bared their racks lifting shirts for plastic! Pendants, beads, curios, fun! forcing the minions into Heaving wenches elastics and is anywhere but here with us!
Vixens! Mormons! Autographs! fables! reveries! floating down the Irrigation canal!
approximations! illustrations! Guinness! the whale taletail of sexual underpinings!
Democrats! sideways to a mirror! Rip on Republicans! both claim to be change! Lies! Libertarians! Greens! To ears and eyes extreme and opposite sides! Sighs! Dew Drops! Fad veneration! drown in the clocks that Chime!
Teal bluey water in the Mediterranean! We swam like eel! the mild cries! the holy yells! He'd surf that swell! Skeptics demanding to see proof! to pulchritude! fading! riding mowers! Shown to the power! trip to the beat!
I heard the best voices of my generation sounding ageless, soaring harmonies barked,
lifting themselves through the arpeggio streets at noon looking for a snappy six
Level-headed Rockers yearning for the modern ethereal association
from the sparking magneto in the urgency of life