Michael Sperduto: 1/11/09

Where’s My Remote

Shit I’m not even done writing this – this is only a test – a beginning – a testament – that must be confessed – addressed - this is only a vanishing point - a starting spot - soap box – preacher teacher I am not – just cosign integers – nor a remainder of blind faith – only integers – variants – remainders – co signs – and these numbers - they keep calling me – they’re numbing me – they keep climbing – never peaking just stating their facts – in double triple – quadruple stacks – of black and white – no grey in sight – and like a switch – it all turns into red tape – just a push of a button – watch as day turns to night

-- So now I’m just sittin’ here – a visionary – envisioning - crawling towards the door – as the thoughts of a draft awakes the hairs – they stand at attention - on edge – much like my eyes – roving like fingers over brail – scratching in between crevices – between cracks and the folds in the blanket – the blank stare reflection – off the TV screen – with it’s ticker – just tinkering away – instant news

-- The display is bouncing in my head – all those dot com’s - bleeps and blips – and oh I must remain calm – and grab hold of myself – mustin’ lose my grip - but the mirror is swaying – it’s bending blending – it’s lying – it’s hiding – it’s a lie – and the sky above is not blue - it’s just a drop ceiling – these four walls are breathing – coming after me – no I’m not paranoid – it’s just that I understand

-- but I’m just sitting here – looking for this fucking remote – so I can turn - the channel - make all this bullshit go away – but the ghost of it all - just won’t fade – it hovers like a stench over every laugh – it’s the memory - that just won’t go away – it’s got these fingers moving – words around into spiro-graphic - fragments of venting sessions - named saved and stored away – but for now I’m still sittin’ here

-- Analyzing dissecting their sales pitch – advertising that two story itch – the black and white of it all – with no grey in sight – but what of all these if-s – the cloudy the murky – the unclear and not all that certain – where the truth hides - behind a gossamer curtain – with it’s tiny silk threads – and highlights of dazzling colors – glistening a spider web matrix of layered theories – hypotheses and all those if’s – overlapping intersecting – running parallel in all directions – the star spangled sky - blanket wave – atmosphere ozone – I’m lost in the corkscrew milky way – of a zig zag paper burn

-- so if there is - only two sides to the story – well then – this would all seem such a waste - waste of time - Of time – I mean why – why even – massage this rhyme – why even try – why ask why – but still I try – I stretch out thoughts to carry on – questions – a quest – a labyrinth of facts – and soft untruths – all the while crunchin’ down on this baby Ruth – corporate candy bar - car advert – rock n roller – just another blink 182 bling bling Nelly ring tone – on this new cell phone – with it’s hello kitty plastic painted caddy – and wait is that the fucking weight – is money all that supply and demand – I tear the skin from my face – and scream – integrity where are you – what are - you but some shit cake infested dingle – dangling from society’s pimple invested ass

-- And I’m just sittin’ here - fuckin’ with this remote – flippin’ channels – doing the web spread search engine dance – surfin’ – always lookin’ for something – an answer – a reason – a meditation mantra trance – for the change of season – and to everything turn turn turn – always trying – picking through this – checkin’ on that – peekin’ in – screening – weaving – just clickin’ away – and I don’t find anything but misleading leads – some fake plastic trees – some porn - something about killer bees – some more porn – a ghost – a story about how a ghost was born – a whole lotta fear – and a celebrity super blog - it’s all got me pullin’ out my hair – yeah but I’m still just sittin’ here

-- cross reference - file checkin’ serial numbers – dates times – names and places – long lingering over finger print mazes – clearing out the fog – and comin’ up with just empty pages – you see - There’s many sides to the story – you see everything has been over and over - And over done – this is nothing new – this is just a redo - redundant

– these articulating pithy tricks – are only a way to soothe my mind – to shadow this pain – my skin is screaming – from a vulture-ness sun – screaming with a vengeance – a thousand years young – my soul is freezing under a silhouetted moon – and the day has just reached high noon

-- While back at the shopping malls – written on the subway walls and bathroom stalls – the prophets - seek in tongues and prose – for a dream catcher – a thread spinster – a spiral whistler – the frosted window reverberates the musac playing – on some plastic jukebox swilling – bad brain farts - spoiling the air of executive lounges – of virgin mega mobile super stores – where clear channel’s pissin’ out black blood through the air waves – and we sit back like little watered lawn gnomes – grabbing a good seat to witness the next wave of mutilation

-- Oh mutations – cloning zones – down loading – up loading – with unloading docks – a whole section on how to suck a presidential cock – while sealing a Cuban blunt – it’s a ken star caper – a white water – raffle wafer – always cookin’ up some pleads some scheme – like a baker’s crying dream – smoothing out the scene – they treat him like Elvis – a rock star – fat on his own cock bar – where the fuck is my remote

-- And yup - those were the good old days – how we all sat by and slept – too sleep to sleep sleep – the chainsaw buzz of Z’s – echoing off the big screen TV – and what’s it matter now - anyhow – no payment’s - no interest for the next 12 months – just kickin’ it here - like a chrysalis – a moth butterfly – bidding time – I’m just watching the wheels - go around and round – watchin’ ‘em slow down – and get rusty – creak twist flake and break off – making me thirsty

-- But before I quench my throat – I’m felling compelled to check some stock quotes – and the CNN – tickers tellin’ me – all about some new I-pod prop up pop band – while the picture’s showing the war – and the toll it’s been taking – all these pie graphs - pictographs and line charts – the number of dead keeps rising – and how that’ll change the whole demographic – for the new hit singe brainwashed jingle – jangle – there’s always an angel – but this time - the information highway – is jammed packed – with tossed out cookies – and used up user files – the hard drive’s – rattlin’ and sputtering – from all the pop up’s - need to defrag – have that baptismal cleansing – and now time has caught to me - like jet lag – beatin’ me down – kickin’ me down – down on the ground – and oh shit is that my remote

-- And won’t someone please answer that motherfucking - goddam phone – and what of this – this god – a concept – aren’t we supposed to wonder and ponder – but just like loyal lemming subjects week – we remain meek - well I object recant and denounce – just let me pronounce – there is no god – no goddess – no deity – no penates – no Dali llama - ta boo ta boo – no mummy - in the tomb – no sailor no moon – no Keith no who

-- what where when why and how I cry over this – ponder rewind retract – slam into it – and attack – receive resolve – relieve and retrieve – pile all the facts – and slap my shitty wit about a bit – relearn and re-reason with – turn over and cook the other side for awhile – and sit back – to watch all this shit boil bubble – fester and stew

-- it’s all in my head – it’s all in my head – is the mantra I speak – as I walk to the window – and pull away the curtains – let the grey sky roll in on me – trace the electric lines down the block – running against and through – the dead trees – mirrored in the polluted river – the sun it’s hiding now – to scared or ashamed to show it’s face – or maybe this just isn’t the time - maybe the moon has taken it’s place

-- So I’m just sitting there – I’m lazy should’ve stayed in bed – should’ve never let all these thoughts shroud my head – maybe I should’ve - turned on some dead – maybe He’s Gone or Tenseness Jed – maybe some Epistrophy instead - get lost in that piano pattern bliss – or in that smile - lost on that August day – remember summer grass blades – and the sheen from her shoulder blade – the dogs run free – with the sweet smell of gage – but I’m just sittin’ here – fighting to remember where I left that stupid remote

-- When it hits me like a rock – the ability to think has started to mock – but it’s brief like a blink – so I grab up this pen to write – to draw up some new plans – to go after the man – so I say fuck the remote and just turn off the TV – run to the computer and shut off the internet – turn off the phone and hibernate – till I’m numb – till I forget the names – and places

– all about tsunami’s – hurricanes and mudslides – forget about the missing kids – and the war – the fear – and what the bush man did – I forget who won the super bowl – and what star had a baby – a rehab stint – got divorced and remarried – or got into a brawl – because they were lit – I just forget

-- Then somehow it all creeps back in – my nose will sniff it out like a stale fart – my need to know – it just fuels my art – keeps the blood flushin’ – keeps the juice goin’ in and out of my heart – I’d be lying if I said I didn’t care – hell I’d be lying if I said I didn’t fear – all the shit goin’ on out there – I can feel it right here – and I’m just sitting here

-- Rollin’ with this dealin’ with that – as the light creeps up - to stab me in the back – but I’m just bobbin’ to a rascal – to dizzy to understand – the virtue of monk – over sonny skies easy sideways down – two three one - Whatever happened to – the last one – that waltz – a commercial – sellin’ airwaves for useless phone communiqué – it is like I’m pounding nails into the floor with my forehead – Borgisian was right - but then the chaos breaks into silence again – the mantra of those notes – the reverb of memories – it’s so cold outside – but that one phrase brings in such warm summer days – and what was it that she’d say – spiraling sweet sweet – badassssss – on - oh sweet summer daze – and confusion – its just a state of mind – an illusion - a goal to peek in at – times to brief – but such is this – another drum roll please – remember seeing James fall to his knees – just then cannonball comes back in – rolling over miles – over the hills and far away – away – away – is where I’d like to stay – on a mound in the desert that is your ocean – a mellow soul to soul – aching for only everything - if only from each other – there’s vibrations of soft solid eyes – I’m just sittin’ here - beating down time – tappin’ my fingers to another rhyme – that hasn’t even been written yet -

-- Another four dead and the ghost’s of Nixon are calling’ – the watershed is tumblin’ the prez’s lips are fumblin’ – and the secretary of defense’s jaws a flappin’ mo’ shit in the wind – can’t even duck it’s flying so free – no armor for no hum-vee – you see the dj’s spinnin’ some Britney pukin’ punk ass bitch be spewin’ – instead of some protest song – but they seem all but gone from the radio

-- So I’m just sittin’ here – flippin’ channels in my head – surfin’ the net with dread – as the head lines read - another life – ten at that - and more to come – and can you give to the tsunami refund – donate to the red cross and watch your money get washed away – like the UN for food for gas for oil for back stabbin’ fools – it feels like someone just kneed me in the family jewels

-- So who will save your soul – some godforsaken hedonist – a rapist of trust – watching as the wheels begin to rust – shit they never sleep – the hills have eyes – and it feels like their watchin’ me – somebody’s after me – is it paranoia – is it john birch – kncokin’ – unlatchin’ – un snappin’

-- Yeah I’m just sittin’ here – twiddlin’ thumbs – with these drums along the Mohawk – these run on thoughts – spewing out like a shit storm – piss warm – horrible horrible thoughts – my yahoo is tellin’ me something’s happening – something’s cookin’ – side stage back stage – like oz – the wizard is just sittin’ there

-- in the Technicolor dream – it’s drippin’ streakin’ – fallin’ - like blood from a broken nose – Ali Frasier and Jack Johnson – the forgotten – till Miles startin’ tootin’ – and then the glory comes back in on me – like Tenseness sunshine – and my grandfathers homemade wine – spillin’ down my throat – sliding down just right – and as my grandmother says – nice – and I recall the roses – it must have been the roses – so splendor in the grass – chasing butterflies – through tomato plant paths – but right now I’m just sittin’ here

-- and my stomach is turning – ideas are learning – yearning to see the light of day – big brother won’t be able to stop this – won’t be able to say – I hear the drums a comin’ – those tin soldiers and the ghost of Nixon – and why - and how many more – this is a call to arms – we are over 50 million strong – with pens in hand we will write our own will – and with this ink – we will spill more blood then any sword – then any machine gun tank scud – we will rise and take back our hill

Thursday, January 15, 2009

Where’s My Remote

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