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Let’s turn it on.
I mean really turn it on.
Let’s turn on it.
It’s time to turn it around.
Let’s watch it
from the inside.
Let’s turn it over before it’s over.
This time we’ll turn that flashing
fat screen upside down.
We’ll strip the cold fire from its flicker
and tickle its underbelly as it
jiggles topless in an electric dance.
Let’s over tip the dust bunnies,
those cheerleaders of neglect,
as they shake their chalky booties
bristling with blue light.
Let’s stuff their sequined G-strings
green with sweaty money.
Let’s transform it all
until it turns us on.
It’s the New American Dream.
It’s never over until the fat lady sings,
and this time we’ll listen to her words.
It’s her song that matters now.
It is the Super Bowl of the Muse.
The Big Game in the Big Easy.
And this year it’s even bigger, better, bolder.
It’s more colorful, more eclectic,
more engaging
and less real than ever.
Can you imagine?
Even the commercials have something new to say:
a middle-aged Allen Ginsberg doing the shimmy.
His hairy belly bulges out from under
his red, white and blue
flag tank top.
Crowned in a rainbow of fireworks,
Allen gulps down a chilled diet Pepsi,
like secret, sparkling nectar from Shangri-La,
as if the red, white and blue can
was filled with the lusty dreams of his youth.
Our Allen simply belches, “om,” twinkling his timeless grin.
It’s all happening now.
It’s Super Overtime.
We’re into Sudden Death.
Let’s rock with the rockers.
Let’s roll it over in the fake green grass
of our imagination.
Let’s rewind the rerun, fast forward it to the end.
Play it backwards to start all over again.
This is our new beginning.
Let’s put a giant magnifying glass
over the top of the Superdome
and set it ablaze.
Let’s tear down the old goals.
Just imagine 100,000 people
all paying big bucks to sit with the big cheese
in this quaking maze of stands and fans,
all snapping their fingers frantically
and pounding their feet for more poetry!
Millions more having Super Slam Parties.
Think of it −
poets going to Disneyland!
Everybody everywhere stops everything
for a single afternoon.
Even people who don’t like poetry feign passion,
munch down word chips
dipped in dark image,
take off on hot wings,
sport inky berets
to impress
their own fickle muse.
We’re so entranced by how
the fresh blood still sputters
from the cheap shot
in s l o w m o t i o n over and over,
we forget our own surging turmoil.
Again, we angrily boo the fumbled phrase.
Yes − all of America out of control
cheering wildly for more
graceful word play.
The yellow flags of syntax
thrown down without penalty,
we can almost taste sweet victory.
What’s a split infinitive or even a sentence fragment
when the Great Win is in sight! Oh yes, just think of it!
Everybody everywhere screaming at once,
slurring their meaningless slogans into a single soulful chant,
throwing their hands to the sky
in an endless human wave.
Our real heroes are on the field,
taking their licks for the team.
Slamming themselves into each other
like bugs flattened on a windshield.
We who sit and watch from above
spring to our feet in one overwhelming motion!
Cross-eyed from the hard hits,
shaking with exhaustion,
dripping Gatorade,
smeared with mud and blood,
the players frantically
guard the gridiron,
falling finally forward
into one great groping
sweaty flesh hill,
melting down like a pile
of ice cubes
abandoned and draining.
Counting down the final seconds, we stumble,
stagger and stomp almost in unison,
drunk on our own inner revelation.
Pregnant with joy, swollen with pride, we flail about
beer-bloated and convulsing in syncopated steps,
sinfully drenched in the sweet sweat of our synergy.
In a single moment of satori,
it is too clear
that despite all the hype,
the money and noise,
there has never been anyone
on the field.
The final buzzer
screeches as poignantly
as a virgin bride
learning her husband
is not the gentle man
she thought she married.
Who will play
the Winner
now the harsh
light of truth
has finally turned
upon us?
Mad Dog Friedman | Mad Dog Blues | Peddlers of JoyLafayette, Colorado
Mad Dog writes from the moment and sings from his heart. His influences include sources as divergent as William Butler Yeats
& the delta blues. His songwriting is sincere, simple & often humorous. He has recorded many solo & collaborative projects featuring his spontaneous compositions on harmonica, Native American flute & Theremin. He is also the founder of Mad Dog Blues & The Astral Project....more
The Mojo Medicine Show is an unique blues duo that blends the jug juice of 1930's juke band music with the electric kool-aid jams of the 1960's. Mad Dog Friedman | Mad Dog Blues | Peddlers of Joy
The second album by French-Moroccan power quartet Bab L' Bluz is packed with dizzying melodies and rich instrumentation. Bandcamp New & Notable Feb 14, 2024
