One for the Road

Martini Gorgonzola celebrated his 50th birthday with a front end alignment and a brake check. While his Mazda was levitating on the hoist and being serviced by methheads in blue jumpsuits, Mr. G made a scientific study of the thin oily coffee in his Styrofoam cup. If he squinted his eyes to reduce the blurring effect of his stigmatism, he could almost see the coffee etching a ring into the cellular structure of the white petrochemical foam. He made a silent bet with himself, 3 to 1 odds, that the oily sheen on the surface of the coffee was actually petroleum released from the Styrofoam and not natural coffee oils released from the beans before testing the temperature with a tentative sip. He grimaced briefly at the sour taste and slugged the bad brew back like it was a double shot of whiskey. Well actually he swallowed the rancid brake-shop coffee in a way he imagined whiskey drinkers would slam hard liquor, having never actually tasted whiskey. “Maybe I should get drunk on whiskey,” thought Gorgonzola. “That’s sumthin I’ve never done before. Be a better birthday present than a $436 dollar repair job on the Blue Zoom Zoomer.”

The man named Martini who had never drunk whiskey crumpled up the Styrofoam cup and lined up a basketball shot to the chrome garbage can next to the coffee maker. But he was startled when the waiting room television made a jarring grinding noise and then started to whine. The crushed cup missed the can and bounced off the window, splattering coffee on a poster for Japanese tires. The VCR built into the TV was rewinding its tape while the screen showed blue with a series of white letters in the upper right corner: REWIND. Mr. G looked around to see if anyone had noticed the mess he had made, but he was the only customer in the waiting room and the only employee, a balding Asian with a name tag that declared his name to be “Gus”, was twirling a pencil in one hand and listening to a distant voice on an ancient black telephone, wasn't looking at him. So Gorgonzola walked over to the window and picked up the cup. Placing it carefully in to the garbage he noticed the oily coffee was dripping down the tire model's long legs and dissolving the poster’s ink. He considered using a napkin to clean it up, but was intrigued by the kaleidoscope swirl of red, black and cream colored ink—logo, tire and flesh running together. But the model kept smiling despite the mess her legs were becoming. “Maybe I should get laid,” thought Gorgonzola. “That’s sumthin I haven’t done in a while. Be a better birthday present than a $547 dollar repair job on the old Mazola.”

Another shuttering sound of gears grinding together came from the television as the video tape began playing again. The blue screen briefly displayed the command: PLAY, then a trustworthy gentleman wearing a red tie under his spotless blue jump suit wiped a red rag on a gleaming socket wrench and proceeded to congratulate Martini Gorgonzola on his wise decision to bring his automobile to Brake Masters. Gus said three words in what Gorgonzola guessed to be Korean and hung up the phone. Gus scratched his bald head with the pencil eraser, scribbled something on a yellow invoice and put the pencil, point first, into a glass bowl filled with kitty litter on the red counter. “Your car’s bout ready,” Gus said in a surprising West Texas accent. Martini turned and saw his blue Mazda being driven out of the work bay and into the parking lot. The attractive young model was still smiling even though the coffee stain had eaten all the way through the poster, and Mr. G began to have an uneasy feeling in the bottom of his stomach. “You want to settle up?” asked Gus. “The total comes to $325 for the alignment. Watch out for those curbs, now ya hear? Oh, and your brakes were fine. You just had them done three months ago. Should last you a good long time yet.”

Martini Gorgonzola watched as Gus swirled and blended with the phone and the counter, red, black and cream. The television assured Mr. G that all Brake Master Mechanics received periodic training in the latest automotive technologies. But Gorgonzola was more interested in the cool plastic feel of the floor tiles on his cheek and the hole that had appeared in the Styrofoam ceiling tiles just above and behind Gus’ swirling face. “Happy birthday, Gorgonzola,” he said as the hole grew wider to meet the darkness creeping in from the edges of his peripheral vision. “Never did like coffee much…”

Fishing for Mao’s 15

Psychotropic rivers run through
Origami
Pulsing rhythms pound

Particular particulates capitulate
Opinion
Portals quietly populate

People fishing on stilts
Obliterate
Pondering cultural revolvers

The feathers of your wings

The feathers of your wings
Sometimes makes my nose itch
And my eyes water
Well worth it for the fresh breeze
Of your arrival
And the warmth
As we share our nest

I am not

I am not a microscope
But there is a lack of focus
I am not a freeway
But there are traffic jams
There are accidents
I am not a radio
But there are voices
There is music
There is static
I am not that
But there is this
There is we
There is me
There is [ ]

Ah, I am that, [ ]
Say that, [ ], three times fast, uncle
And hand me the fucking map

Collecting Stamps

Your textual context is dense
And sometimes heartbreakingly dark
But with Cliffhanger Notes in hand
I wade, waist deep, into the space
Between the neat lines
Where the real you
Just might lurk
Yearning to be understood
Hiding behind the shadows
Of approaching twilight

Casual approval
And gold foil stars
Are not what I need from you
I collect unguarded looks
Fleeting smiles
Unconscious laughter
And paste them proudly
Like stamps in my passport
Just graffiti on a wall
Testifying that I am really here
With you
Sharing a cold midnight
Leaning toward each other
Meeting in a warm pool of waxy candle light
Translating ancient languages
Into modern love poems

Share with me the diamond dew
Displayed on blades of grass
This morning

4 > 0

Being against something
Strengthens the thing you are fighting
It defines you as opposed to that thing
What happens if that thing disappears?
Who will you be?
Being against things is a zero sum game

Being for something is much harder
But it defines you as being part of a thing
Part of a thing that you love
As long as you are for that thing
That thing and you cannot disappear
You know who you are

Being anti-war
Subtly increases war
Being active for peace
Increases the power of peace
If more energy is directed towards peace
War will naturally decrease

Let us spend the effort and the time
To discover who we are
And what we are for
For love
For peace
For compassion
For dignity
For health
For education
For saving our selves and all others

For is Greater than Zero

Heads Will Roll

Couldn't afford 200 bucks
For a recycled ticket to paradise
So I avoided the long lines
And the black Tee-shirts
I thumbed a ride out of town
With a gender confused
Trans Ambulance chaser
A wild honey dripper
Who gave me the grand tour
Of the wild side
The under side
Your side
And my side
Before slip sliding away
Into the petroleum sunset
Stone free
Forgotten
But united with something
Ingenious and indigenous
Couldn’t afford 20 bucks
For a bus ticket to the marketplace
So I loitered with the locals
And drank green tea
And added my gangly rhythms
To an impromptu jam session
Pounding on a rusty bucket
And chanting a wordless
But not soulless
Litany of solitude
Of solidarity
And finally of solace
Before slip sliding away
Into the hydrogen sunrise
Thankful for the tour
And the postcards
And the friendly natives
Who helped me feel at home
But most of all
Grateful for the miles
Stretched out beneath my feet
For the throbbing of my temples
That tells me
Tells me
Tells me
I am alive

Sitting Still

Burning dead pages
The rusty barrel steams
And smokes
Inky smoke
From dead pages
Written in a simpler time
By a simpler mind
Now morning sun illuminates
The flying bits of ash
Still bearing faint imprints
Of text
Written
But never read
By another

Me
I’m still sitting
New words swirling
Beneath a blanket of desires
Clamoring for a chance
To audition
To sit in inky stillness
On a dead page
Destined
For the burn barrel

A year later, not much has changed

Hands Up

Hands Up
If you think you’d like to live a long life
Hands Up
If you blink and cry at all the world’s strife
Hands Up
If you’re tired of prepackaged desires
Hands Up
If you would like to fly much higher
Hands Up

I'm Probably Not Moving

I seem to be stuck
The latest poll numbers tell the tale
Only 33% of Blog Readers Approve
Of my attempts at poetry
And Dick Cheney has suggested
That you reading my prose
Makes Osama happy, happy, happy
So I will have to find some way
To excuse my verbal outbursts
To tie my inconsistent use of punctuation
And distrust of caPitalIZatioN
To the recent terrorists plots in London
Or at least negotiate a cease-fire deal
With the Right-Wing pundits
And their zombie followers
Who have accused me of using steroids
To enhance my typing skills
I am only expressing my self
So if I drop a poetry bomb on your head
I am only defending myself
From the rain of propaganda rockets
Fired by institutional terrorists
Who insist that I must dwell in fear
FEAR and nothing but FEAR
So help me
Great Invisible Friend In The Sky

Subscribe to This Blog

Everyone gets SPAM.
Lots of SPAM is random nonsense.
This Blog is full of random nonsense.
But it is better than SPAM.
(4 out of 5 dentists surveyed agree)

So use the form in the sidebar
(to right and down some)
To subscribe to this Blog.

Then you will get automatic email updates
Whenever I post new nonsense on this Blog.
It's Safe.
It's Fat Free.
And it makes the Thunder Echo Blog
Truly Random Nonsense
Instead of Nonsens you have to go hunting for.
And that's better.

Gyromatic Action

Nimble Fingers spin yarns
Many of them off color
Filled to the gills with innuendo
They never fail to reel in
A tasty Bass Assortment

What’s So Funny ‘Bout Peace, Love & Understanding?

Hello Internet. I’ve been on vacation, so I’ve been out of touch. But I still love you.
I’ve been camping with the family and the family dogs. Roasting marshmallows, getting bit by mosquitoes, fishing for bluegill, hiking in the forest are the kinds of things I have been doing. So I haven’t been reading Blogs, or watching TV, or listening to talk radio, or reading newspapers. You could say I’ve been out of touch. Or you could say that I have been in touch. In touch with older, deeper, more primal things like sun sets and moon cycles and keeping my small tribe fed and sheltered.

I had kind of hoped that when I returned from my technological exile, that when I returned to the fast-paced world of email and news updates that there would be some progress, maybe a ceasefire in Lebanon at least. But no, I have returned to find that despite the speed of modern American life, not much has changed. But then again, maybe I have changed. And maybe that is the only change I can really expect to make in this world.

I cannot upholster the whole world, but I can make new sandals for my sensitive feet. I cannot make others stop hating, but I can fill my thoughts and heart with more love and compassion. You could say that changing my insides will not change the world. And you may be right. But from where I am sitting, changing my insides changes everything.

So, Hello Internet. I’ve been on vacation, but I feel more in touch. And I still love you.

Earth Body

Four travelers met on the road
Dipping their toes
In cool water
Heads held high in the air
Hearts harboring a gentle fire
Which gave animation
To their earth bodies