Lewiston Laughingstock and Other Works

Posted: September 26, 2015 in Uncategorized

Lewiston Laughingstock

16 June 2011

Lewiston Library
after visiting Trinity Church
for lunch
and the cop shop
looking for a referral
for a bed at Saint Martin’s.

I really need to get back into
Hope Haven Gospel Mission
after being evicted from
Hebron again
by the psycho schoolteacher
with the daughter who cuts herself.

Hitched back into town
along Highway 119
seven times running
a ride been provided.

This morning, it was in a dump truck
who dropped me off at Home Depot
in Auburn, two miles down the road.

Strolling into Kennedy Park,
after walking into Lewiston,
I find Tim working his community service
picking up huge wood chunks
in a day-glow vest.

At Trinity Church,
there is Joey
slouching on a couch
next to the television,
where I have some coffee
and chocolate chip muffins.

There is Vicky
the kind woman who gave me
peanut butter and jelly sandwiches
that first day in the park.

Off on another day and adventure
after she kicked me to the highway again
I really need to stop playing this game
and let her just die in her beer can.

The Other
As the Other staggers
drunkenly into the aisles
of the Academy,
strips off her clothes
and passes out on the floor.

In the darkness,
me, myself and eye
steal and identify
secrets, whispers
and lost promises.

Immense pile of filth,
says the Green Pope
if you make bombs
you are not Christian
but probably a capitalist.

Nothing to say
always and never
the right thing
but it is always something.

Stop Reminding Me That I Hate You

The day that my spirit animal left me
she disconnected
stopped saying anything
terror came home and made herself comfortable
The signs say go home and be miserable
and you are already home.
There are no more promises to keep
I think you told me about my serving
an ultimate and intimate resolution.
I never said that I couldn’t be there for you
I never said that I would be there for you.
All of these promises never kept
this year has been a lie and a worry
about pregnancy and hypocrisy.
Nightmares never leave, they just gain character.
I hate you for loving me this much
I wish you had let go
a long time ago.
Anyway, I thought that I would call
scream a few times out of the window.
I always remind me of everything that makes you.
Be well, all covered in skin and promises
I never lied because you are never old enough.
Tears drip sand promises never kept
if there is anything that I wish
I did not have to show you
I know that there is one thing-
another kiss could have been a promise.
Bubblegum promises fed on corn and a bigger city
calamity is not so difficult to speel
if you are a bee or a cast
spell maker.
No absolutes that I could mean
get any better
you be you
and I love you more.
The mourning bells are singing worldwide
today, there is nothing better to do than die.
I will never do anything bad again.
Promises promises and all you keep are letters
left behind in the carry-on compartment
of your heart and other emotional baggage.
Spitwads are not free speech.
Say you love me like you mean it.
I hate you anyway.
The adventure has become bothersome,
with the cannibalization and pontification
of sorrow and the loss
that comes with destroying the love of your life.
She will participate in a couple Take Back the Night parades,
and he will write a few poems.
Everything will go back to where it was
before and after the events look like each other.
Passion stopped being worth the discourse
about 100 broken hearts ago.
Stop making excuses
you like it, you bastard
You thrive on it.
Stop reminding me that I hate you.

There are no promises about sex. I told you that!
Scrubbing out the museum of lost love lives, we realized that you were the pinball queen acid wizard. Our promise is spelled out like this: Teethmark Clever Envy, and a slice of pie, oven baked, once a week. A Circus has no Chains. Sleeping in the hammock of your cobweb-haired Dragqueen Cowboy, you find yourself secure, locked in the safe behind the painting, hanging in the library.
The porn star and the political satirist meet for drinks in a dark bar with Grateful Dead posters and photographs of hippies on the wall. They order Sancho’s Broken Arrow Amber Ale, because they are two-for-one during Happy Hour, 4:20 to 6 in the evening. 420 is the police code for marijuana possession. The date today is four-twenty. Earth Day. Save the planet day, and smoke-out day. How leftist is that? Smoke some grass and pick up a pile of trash. The cat has their tongues.
It started out as a nighttime picnic and ended with her handcuffed to the hood of a 1965 Ford Mustang named Buttercup. Budget Rent-a-Car should have reimbursed her for polishing the hood with her ass. The news is belching full with mass graves named Jenin, and the marches upon the Disunited Estates of ShameriKKKa federal government buildings in protest of the wars. Revolution is dancing in the streets of Kabul, Caracas, and the District of Columbia, today.
Father Phil U. Rupp is a Catholic priest who is also a part-time pedophile. He fits right into the middle of The Root of All Evil. What are the chances that Chad Dangling and Dwight Twilight are the same person? The mystery deepens. How is the text a feminist treatise on women and pornography? What makes the story a politically charged satire of the world-at-large? His pussy runs frantically around the small room, while he begins to take charge of his thoughts. He thinks about the packages that left his hands on Thursday, and wonders about the backlash that will follow. Will he be ignored? No comment. Will anyone have anything critical to say? Who will be the first one to shoot him down from his high of independent publishing, today?
It is called nonviolent civil disobedience. You must not fight back. Turn the other cheek. Father Phil knows all about turning the other cheek for the ecstasy in the Rectory. XTC is a drug that should not be allowed in the hands of children, pedophile priests, or other madmen. I baptize thee in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, Amen. If you masturbate, God will kill a kitty!
Touch it, baby. Break down my promises. Prep me for your punch it in. Stroke me slowly on your words, embroidered on your training bra. What is the definition of right and wrong? I am too embarrassed, but not too nervous to deal with it. Do you ever remember what you mean when you are saying things from the beyond? I hate you. I love you. You are not perfect unless I say so. You hate me more that I could ever love you. How does it feel? Suck. Suck. Suck. The gears of the machine are chasing you, telling you that there is no escape. Give up and stop fighting it. Resistance is fertile.
The procession walks slowly through the rain, their wooden burden slacking the pace up the hill. There is little regard for the pallbearers. Death visits your home and you are left wondering if there is something else left to be said. Tomorrow, I will not be happy that you are dead. Don’t disturb us any more. Alice, have you come to ease my pain? Am I worthy of your bath? I don’t know, but I guess so. I am looking for a moment’s interruption in the new direction. The Northwest Flying Typewriters are coming to a city near you! Pull up on the highway of Lies for a little powwow, right in the middle of the interstate avenue.
She has sugarcoated lips, which are so sweet to kiss. I can be your backdoor man, baby. Just place me on the pedestal and I promise to stay. If you could see yourself now, baby, your secret life hiding your possessions. Pseudo Romeo mourns the death of Alice in Chains, while the rest of us know that Alive means more than Alice. Bury your burning cross in somebody else’s yard, Cowboy. I used to get punked and bullied on my block, until I cut a kid’s head off, and stuck it in his mailbox.
“Today’s religion is tomorrow’s superstition” she says with a wicked smile on her face. “It is only a matter of time before we catch you.”

Unable to have children, Razmania’s extended family joins a traveling freakshow act, which keeps the world mildly entertained for years.

Standing by the window watching Daddy go off to ruin the world, after putting eyeglasses on for the first time a clown zombie…

“Power to the people,” chant the protesters. “The whole world is watching.” Meanwhile, back at the Last Chance Hotel, Razmania worries.

Ten minutes after the last transmission, the FBI kicked in the door and arrested Mr. Coyote. Torture ensued. Nightsticks were used liberally.

“I am running out of heroes, Razmania. You are in short supply around here, you know?” Nobody returns his phone calls but he is still proud.

“Whatever twists your knot, Peaches.” Razmania is looking hysterical. “I will perfume my sheets for you, and make enchiladas!”

“We can hire another producer to edit your show,” Mr. Coyote says. “It might be complicated but you are still expendable.” Note the lawsuit.

“What camera are you using?” Razmania appears to be drunk. “I hate when I share something beautiful with you, and all you do is stare at me.”

Addiction is more complicated than originally believed. Now we just know better. We are in the nicotine delivery business. Note burning car.

Williams Burroughs and Kathy Acker are making love underneath a palm tree in the backstreets of the Dominican Repubic. Yes, Repubic.

“What is the definition of the postmodern dislocative narrative?” She is not really asking, but it looks that way, to the untrained eye.

INTERIOR Basement of the Last Chance Hotel, Mr. Coyote and Razmania are sitting on the couch, eating Girl Shout cookies, and drinking beer.

If you are writing a story on Twitter, how do you write it in reverse, so it is linearly cognizant? There is a line forming outside.

“Freedom? What would you know about freedom? You have never known freedom.” She is amping up for a full blown temper tantrum. Hide the guns.

The Screenplay
20 March 2011
The end of the world, 23 December 2012
Last Chance Hotel, Toxic City, Distopia in the Razee Universe
Countess Razes/Razmania,
PimpDaddy Longlegs,
Betty Bukowski/Firestarter,
black bloc
Mr. Coyote-Prankster-Trickster-
The definition of violence, war, battles, competition,
Freedom of assembly, freedom of speech, advocacy and human rights, crisis support,
A play within a play
the role of biased media in our current society
You have to play the game to know why you play you play the game.
What they don’t know, they don’t want
Often called the point of attack, the inciting incident is the first premonition of impending trouble, dilemma, or circumstance that will create the main tension of the story. It usually falls at the end of the first sequence. But it can sometimes appear in the first few minutes of a film.
The protagonist is locked into the predicament that is central to the story, which occurs at the end of Act One, This lock in, therefore, propels the protagonist into a new direction in order to accomplish his/her new objective throughout the second act.
The first culmination generally occurs around the midpoint of the second act and is a pivotal moment in the story but not as critical as the Lock In or Main Culmination. Consider the first culmination as the second highest or second lowest point in Act Two, the second highest hurdle to be faced.
The final culmination occurs at the end of the second act and brings the main tension to a close while simultaneously helping to create a new tension for Act Three.
The twist is an unexpected turn of events in the third act. Without a twist, the third act can seem too linear and predictable. It can also be the last test of the hero.
Try stating your story in one sentence.
It is the end of the world, and superheroes are limping home from a long day at the office.
In this madcap comedy, a merry band of superheroes find love in the afterlife.
Act One:
Scene One:
Do you have any last words, my son? It is never too late to beg for forgiveness.
Just fucking stick the needles into me, and let’s get this over with. I have places to be, and people to see.
I’m not worried about ghosts in general, she said. Just the ones that are related to me.
Do you care to share some last thoughts on the subject of redemption?
Every time that I see someone holding up a sign that says “The end is near,” I get sad in my heart and wish that I could believe them. Well, Father, that time has come. I can actually believe them.
Scene Two:
Merica was born in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean, deep in the belly of a penal ship heading to the New World. Her daddy fell overboard on the third day, and on the fifth day, her mama jumped over to join him. Orphaned by the seas, she took to prostitution like a dog to a bone. By the time that she turned 20, she ruled the world.
Scene Three:
I pledge allegiance to the fags
of these Disunited Estates
of ShameriKKKa
and to the shaved pubic
for which we can’t stand
one nation invisible
with library cards
and sippy cups for all.

Act Two:
Scene One:
Amazing Disgrace
Dear America,
it is too late for apologies,
but we forgive you anyway,
not for you, but for us.
You are raping all of our women,
the bowl-cut terrorist screamed,
just before he opened fire.
You do not have to do this
was the preacher’s response,
but it was too late.
We shall overcome
the hurting,
the beatings,
lynchings and murder,
the master’s midnight rapes,
the prison sentences,
and the profiling.
Take down the flag,
not because you have to,
but because it is the right thing to do.
It is all about dignity,
and it is never too late.

Scene Two:
Scene Three:
Act Three:
Scene One:
Scene Two:
Scene Three:


This postmodern transmedia narrative chronicles the misadventures of PimpDaddy Longlegs, and Betty Bukowski, two love-struck abusive drunks on a path of destruction in Toxic City, in the Disunited Estates of Shamerica.
Narrative is the structure, story is the form.
Standing by the window, watching his father go off to ruin the world, after putting eyeglasses on for the first time, a zombie clown sets out to write a new national anthem.
The Invisible Museum stands naked, attacked by Grandfather Dustbunny and then there was the hired killer, taking no hostages, while Zen butlerhood goes viral and a commercial plays “I told you so.” After the heart attack, a talking cigarette falls head over heels in love with a zombie clown named Kerosene.
Transmedia Junkets
Daddy Longlegs Takes a Walk
Betty Bukowski is Dead
An Evening at the Circus Chapters 1-4
Deadend Avenue
Across the street from Kitty’s Cathouse is Ugly Bob’s Burgers, home of the sloppiest slice of Heaven on this side of the Elysian Fields.
Mask (:45)
Selfish (:45)
Visual Orphans
Electronic Quiver
Razee Radio
Isla del Razes
Pimp Daddy LongEnough on playlist.com
Boot Hill Jihad and the Hangman’s Noose

Monday, 26 August 2002
Imagine Truth to be a precious princess, surrounded by bodyguards of Lies. She is suffering from teen-age angst, feeling cock-hungry and arrogant in her white gowns. The thought-police are watching and investigating, waiting for the right moment to strike back. History ‘lies agreed upon by the victors.’
Doublethink is the national anthem. Our anti-heroic outlaw is a real estate agent dealing in intellectual properties. What is mankind going to do when God wakes up, one day, and decides to be an atheist?
If Anybody had taken a moment to investigate the murder of Nobody, Somebody would have realized that Anybody could be a suspect in this crime of passion. Of course, Somebody grew paranoid and began looking over their shoulder for Anybody to sneak up on them. Nobody takes a restful nap in the city morgue. The murder weapon turns up in a bridal gown, in the back of a pawnshop. Anybody’s fingerprints were all over the weapon of mass destruction. Define the hypocrisy of why Americans has bombs, but no one else is allowed pharmaceuticals. Somebody has come between Nobody and Anybody.

“Be my friend, or I will scare you.”

“You are not only a political bully, but also emotionally incorrect. You have a severe case of mind-madness.”

“You can make up all the stories that you want, and name our daughters Jenin, you princess-queen of the pathological liar.”

“Welcome to Cold Facts Avenue,” she says. “My pimp is Mister Crack.”

“To be a pimp, you have to be a burgler of psychology,” he says. “You have to break into a bitch’s head and steal her mind. It’s a damn shame, but sometimes you just have to trunk a bitch.”

“The overt commodification of sex is less disturbing to the courts than the covert sexualization of art,” says the Whore. “The collective fictionalizing of individual identity creates a kind of carnival of passion, a festive space, at once, real and imaginary. I am just another prop in the masquerade.”

“Fiction is not an easy way out of anything. Violence is in the mind of the actor. It may not be assumed from the broken glass.”

The execution of the Deathrow Kitten is complete. Thieves of identity have kidnapped Truth from her protectors, holding her hostage for a large ransom. Her virginity is a political agenda of property. Intoxicated by passion, she markets herself as a compassionate person, full of hope and love. Her bodyguards of lies protected her for as long as the sedatives were in place, but once that she was out on her own, there was little that could be done to protect the world from her evil experiments. She becomes a Playboy bunny, a playmate in the sexual playground, a pawn in the institution of beauty. Continuing to be emotionally impotent is her job, her name, and her very identity.

“I am paving the Internet Superhighway with my pussy,” she says. “I am going to turn your name over to every information gathering agency in my Rolodex, you evil bastard!”

“It was back in ‘02, when the times were hard, Stagger Lee.”

The screaming coming from your room was a bit unnerving, to say the least. We were worried that maybe you had killed someone in there.

Jester’s Faux-Pas

28 August 2002

The Outlaw and the shellshocked Bombmom hold hands in the church, ignoring the others, even if there is a wedding going on, that of her best friend, who they screwed together, back when they were sixteen. Twenty years later, there are more virgins to be taken, and more screaming that they are the wounded Daddy’s Little Victim. He is the arm-twister of Justice, and the hairpuller of Truth.

“My head is above water, but the house is on fire,” he says. “I am weeping to keep us from burning.”

“You want like Time makes a clock envy,” she replies. “You have a relentless bedtime, curfew with the tease-police. This howl is the ranter’s revenge, the jester’s faux-pas, just waiting to happen. There will be no screaming in the black box, no matter what color that you make it.”

“We promise to tear down the fourth wall with explosives, next time,” he says. “You think that I am kidding. Look into my eyes, do I look like I am kidding?”

Protect your kittymonkey from the demons crawling out from the petting zoo. There are closet midgets lurking around our ankles, waiting for the perfect Money moment to strike. It feels like Monday, all the time.
It is a photo session for underwhere.

“My ex used to practically ask me to move out, if I went to the grocery store.”

Snakeoil Recipe Merchant
Aug. 29th, 2002 at 10:24 AM

The meaning to the meaning of life is mental dishealth warfare and the offers of war for those without mass destruction, but plenty of weapons. We are playing hide and seek with the ghosts and goblins of our imagination. Everybody is wearing masks and neckties, so if they happen to catch themselves about to be beheaded, maybe by the grace of god, they will be spared losing their heads.

“I have been known to lose my head, a time or two,” Texorcist says.

“That is what makes you a hothead,” Jane Malady, the ideological prostitute, replies. “And a secular humanist. You have lost God’s pager number, my man.”

“The erotic silence of the snakeoil recipe merchant reminds me of Chrysanthemums thrown from a tinker man’s wagon, discovered on the ride to the boxing matches.”

“Remind me to have your name added to the international database of Bad News.”

“My name means Tangle Candy Flying Southbound in Arabic, didn’t you know?” Texorcist says, while absently staring out the window. “You all are making my life into a big publicity stunt, but you can’t scare me. I have been hit so many times that war seems friendly. Do I need to remind you that a short path is not through the truth? Have you read my head, Doctor?”

“I was just wondering about that. True anti-socials wouldn’t hide, because the remorse wouldn’t be there. My ex sounds like Bundy.”

“I should not tell you stories before you go to sleep.”

“I went to sleep, and the FBI was trying to find me. All because I was framed for narcing on a murder that I was framed for. It was so weird. I was shaking when I woke up.”

“Maybe we should make naked pizza, together,” Texorcist says. “Sounds like fun, doesn’t it?”

“This is a story about a 24-year-old artist that gets sick of society, and proclaims that her home is an independent nation. She declares herself the Queen, establishes a government and imposes laws. Nevertheless, the Pirate is her man, only because he thought she was a slut. He enticed my hormones, awakened my fantasies, and now we are sleeping together,” Jane says.

Monday sunrise
time to chase my tail again

after the casino
cutting fruit for six hours with Maria
and walking outside,
the mountain side
exploding in fireworks
and cheering tourists.

Three hours on the bus
up that mountain
high hopes and anticipation
smiles dealt out like gift cards
the chance to win millions

While the drunks pile back on
(one seizes up
like an old engine
and spasmodically
slumps into the aisle)
dead promises and lost hope
crawl back down that mountain
at midnight like Cinderella
carrying her broken ass heel
and her mascara drooling scary.

répondez, s’il vous plaît

  1. razeeink@yahoo.com says:

    From: Razee





    Sent from the Viking

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