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2 Poems by Dean Creighton |
The Myth of Television I run through the mythologies on the satellite television. The news shows have corporate monikers and very nervous performing artists reading what is not objective information. The performing artists are just throwing entrails hoping to see their future. John Wayne is yet alive and suffering under the fear that white people will be culturally obliterated by "a hundred years" of divorce from the West should the Indians consolidate that victory on a Dakota hill. The Indians, I guess, having a patent on Winchesters. A girl has been kidnapped by kindly seeming people who want to abuse her with I don't know some form of sexual abuse but she doesn't want it so I change the channel. Some delightful kid is enraptured by a hamburger- shrill duck fuck. Particle beams and shit. "Is the technology that moves alien crafts through interstellar space actually in the government's possession"? Fuck. A machine which pumps garlic butter into bread. better hot, mythology. We need a mythology pump explosion. Urgent, untraceable messages from our television screens leaving pieces of glass hanging from flesh from skull. Meanwhile, mythological breath. I'm a Steward at the PO I'm like Billie the Kid if he'd made his later years. They keep sending managers at me and they're toting psychological games contractual & federal methodology lug-headed stupidity military officer time although the latter two are often synonymous. My backup is mostly lapdogs with scimitars for cocks who would fuck me if they could they surely wood. Oh, Billie has lived a life of art & poetry he tripped at 15, in this version, and he's been hiding out under six-dollar an hour jobs for 25 years watching. They haven't even nicked him yet haven't creased the skin though they've worn down the knees the shoulder stiffens hand goes numb and they've insured his marriage to 100 Proof Popov proving that no man is purely evil though most of these fuckers they send at him have souls like a black hole memory. & ethically in this town there is a union bizness contract which in this current string of theory is all the working man has- other than the right to choose: eat it or starve. Billie ain't moving from the thick fart stench of mail this day.
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