Sunday, March 25, 2007

Excerpts from "War Hysteria!"


by King Wenclas.

Logan Airport, September 11, 2001:

"That's the eighth guy in a row who had some of them cute plastic knives. I wonder how I get a set of them?"
"You can't buy them here! Those fellows are from another country."
"Oh well."
* * * * * * *
As the gigantic towers of the World Trade Center explode in flames and mountains of black smoke fill the morning sky, the streets of Manhattan jam with escaping throngs, cries of terror reverberating within skyscraper canyons. It's a scene from the movie "Quo Vadis." New York City this day resembles Nero's Rome. The great city, center of the world, has been put to fire. Residents of the fabulous island of knowledge and wealth watch the symbol of their money and power crash to the ground. A wonder of the modern world is gone, turned into rubble, this bright September day of the year 2001 AD. It is an historic-- and horrific-- moment.
* * * * * * *
Vice Pesident Dick Cheney sits in an extremely comforatble chair in a rustic cabin at camp David, popping nitroglycerin tablets into his mouth. A nurse waits nearby. A heart monitor shows an erratic graph. Vice President Dick Cheney isn't worried. He never worries about anything. That's for normal humans. If any person around him worried, Vice President Dick Cheney would give that person a withering look of contempt. He has no use for weakness, for misgivings, trees, furry animals, or any of that heart-bleeding crap. Vice President Dick Cheney is a stoic; a true Roman. At word of the attacks, Secret Service agents bodily carried him from his White House chair to an underground bunker. Vice President Dick Cheney remained calm, issuing instructions as he was being carried, ordering the President to stay out of Washington, all the while casually knocking down nitroglycerin tablets.

"Where's the President?" a reporter now asks.

"In Louisiana. Or maybe flying around in Air Force One. Someplace. I have no idea."

Vice President Dick Cheney's expression says the question is idiotic. The wry trace of a grin on his lips acknowledges that W is useless and irrelevant. Vice President Dick Cheney sits back in his lounger and folds his hands peremptorily over his stomach. The movement worries his nurse, who studies the heart monitor.

"We have to bomb the animals," Vice President Dick Cheney decides.

"The animals?"

"Excuse me. We have to bomb the Afghanis. We have to take out their oil."


"Oil. Yes. The ANWAR oil. We have to go in there and take it out. Them out, I mean. Any snow owls, caribou, or polar bears killed are collateral damage. Regretful, but necessary." (His steely eyes gleam at the word "necessary.") "In the Arctic. Afghanistan. Alaska. You know what I mean. The oil. The animals. The terrorists. It's all the same. This is a fight for our freedom-- the freedom of American oil companies to drill wherever and whenever necessary to maintain the American way of life." (The heart monitor reacts furiously. The nurse is eager for Vice President Dick Cheney to calm himself. the hands folded across his stomach flutter passionately, though the tone of his voice hasn't altered; it's under control. Everything about Vice President Dick Cheney is under control. The lines on the monitor do zig-zags.) "You see, it's interrelated. Everything is interconnected. We musn't flinch from the task ahead. This will be like the Persian Gulf War, only longer, and-- better."

The reporter is baffled. Acting President Dick Cheney studies him as if gazing at an imbecile, or an insect. This is how Acting President Dick Cheney looks at all people. He signals with a movement of his eyebrow. Secret Service agents carry the smug and confident man from the room, nurse and heart monitor following.
* * * * * * *
(Stay tuned. More to be posted.)

Sunday, March 18, 2007

Frank Walsh Poetry


"the white man points to things that aren't there anymore"

You castaway spike
in the bell curved
cast of thousands
skylines, you orphaned
mongrel guest motels
vacancy ripening
into red and green
plastic monopoly
game boys, yo animal
man, yo animal woman
getting a leg up
on the freeze pop
all over each other
for a two faced garage
and frankenstein dogs
on gold chokers, for
the greater goodies
walking the plank
at the sound of the bell
for undisclosed hyperglycemias
to fuel the fire foreclosure
and the white washed graves
in the Big Easy of the head
and casino royale
with oysters in bed bugs
the hell out of the lounge
lizards patent leather
ox blood with the mop
in the hands of migrants,
You got what it takes
when it doesn't hit back
your timing is perfect
when the clock's clean
last call before the doors
close and the gas goes down
the tubes fed without chewing
the fat, virtually unloaded,
docks the enemy mall,
touch and go without
feeling a thing just where your
skin should have been
there's an upper crust instead
I'd been way ahead
afterall the dope is on the way,
yes kids, the dope is on the way!

-Frank Walsh, 11.07.04


America should I leave you
from the time we broke up
your greener pastures were flattened
we both had too much stuff

because the judge has it in for
us there's no where else to go
the beauty of the victims here
is never too much to have and hold

my likes to any one object
of desire mushrooms just enough
to go round with a chip on my shoulder
better yet, in the head, a free
for all may be called for
to push and grunt your Tombstone up.


(Frank Walsh will be headlining the ULA's April 22 Spoken Word Extravaganza at The Underground, 40th and Spruce, in Philadelphia.)

Tuesday, March 13, 2007

"Poet on the Beach"

Bongo drums go beat beat beat
bongo drums go beat
hipster be bop cool cat go!
poet on the beach.
Goattee wearing sunglass'd dude
Hawaiian shirt
versify to all the world
poetry is cool.
Sitting cross-legged in the sand,
rebel warrior, rights of man!
protest sounds, peace and love,
watch him play for all he's worth
seagulls watching, rising surf
recite those words! yell that verse!
snapshot tourists
syncopated bum.
Darkened evening, sun goes flat,
red-lined sky
he takes the change that's in the hat
and says goodbye.
Echoes follow
lingered rhythmn
seagulls watch him go,
and little children
hope he'll return tomorrow.

-King Wenclas

Sunday, March 11, 2007

"American Clowns"

Up, down
In, out
Buy the ticket
Jump and shout!
They charged us to get in and gave us Bozo.

WELCOME to the carnival tent madhouse,
star spangled bloody red white flags of hate flapping
across Chevrolet skies
the speakers crackle as popcorn spills over purple theater seats,
and the curtains rise
from the Dolby Technicolor canvas of Hollywood gods
with psychedelic eyes,
They charged us to get in and gave us Bozo.

We can't complain, we ASKED for this shitty mess,
this comedy of buffoonery with our votes of approval
of the sideshow of fame,
political hacks,
unendurable clowns with cynical raps,
and caverns for brains,
They charged us to get in and gave us Bozo.

We'd like to flee at least escape the images and the script
of this intolerable cartoon media show that's making us sick,
Cotton candy rockstar video NASCAR basketball celebrity showtime
300 channels 24-hour talking head nonsense experts
brainwashed puppets!
But they charged us to get in and gave us Bozo!

Now the sound's turned UP on the screaming jets and battlefield cries,
as casualties mount
in the movie noise
latest blockbuster distraction
dumb the populace
mass destruction of Truth,
preservation of Lies,
They charged us to get in and gave us Bozo.

-King Wenclas