Soap Box Artist

not everyone gets to say goodbye
before the great deeds are counted.
But I've gotten to:

I told her, Animals that eat their young
are better suited to be parents than she ever was;
she only said she loved me.

I believe it, too.
But I've also had whores
swear their love 'til death.

I'm no longer tricked by Alligator Tears.
I've spent my life in a death roll,
now I wouldn't know what to do if it stopped.

good bye, old woman, good bye;
I'll be gone in a bit
on one of them Big Ol' jet planes

and I won't see you again
before you die….
not as some kind of punishment,

but as a preservation from you
and your world class stupidity:
I hope, despite who you are, that all goes well

And you don't sell what little is left
to the teeth of the devil:
but you know the devil… he'll take it anyway.

Posted by Sonic B. Phuct at 11:42 AM | Permalink

most mornings, i can't see
from the water filling my eyes,
it's sticks and stones
that make everything blurry.

my chest caves in
with the weight of a new day,
and the light takes away
life's defining edges.

There is no hope,
forty or fifty more years
of every morning tears:
dying is how we cope

with a wasteland between
the whores legs that I came
and the box that will close
and the stone with our name....

oh i only know this path
where righteousness has missed
every flower on the ground
there is no beauty in this math;

there are no more to count.
it's the morning once more
the dying sounds out the door
it's a bus that takes me anywhere.

And they ask where I come from
and I can never say,
not from shame or delusion
but I've known no other way

the transport to here
seems different today,
and the spark in my heart
hopes we all get to heaven

but i think your god
has something different to say,
for mine hasn't said anything
in ten thousand days...

Posted by Sonic B. Phuct at 10:41 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Here's a letter I sent to the Newspaper in New London regarding an opinion article from Joyce Conlon. Here is a picture of her... She's kind of frightening and I didn't know that when I wrote this......

All I Want For Christmas…
Is for Joyce Conlon to shut up. She recounts the simpler days of consumerism for children, I’m sure a time we all miss. However, she goes on to butcher the Christmas spirit with her demands for gifts. I, as a reader, am glad to know that she recognizes she’s part of a dysfunctional family, though I wish she could see that she’s at the head of it.

Christmas is a religious holiday, not a shopping holiday – despite what the ad execs on 5th Ave. tell you. If you’re not celebrating the religious aspects of Christmas, perhaps you shouldn’t celebrate it at all. I’m not Jewish and I don’t celebrate Chanukah. It seems to me that Conlon is simply celebrating the fact that her family doesn’t like her very much and I can certainly understand why – certain types of gifts are banned by her, meaning that she will not accept them. Wow.

I have an idea for her kids: Take her money and go and buy her gift certificates to all the stores you want things from. When she refuses, that’s just that much more loot for you guys. To say that a gift is unacceptable leaves me utterly speechless. She mentions that her family (Husband and Children) says they don’t know what to get her. I’ve got an idea for them, a lump of coal. Of course they don’t know what to give her, she’s clearly the most judgmental person I’ve ever heard of.

I was under the impression that Christmas was the celebration of the birth of Christ. I’m not sure how celebrated Christ is when presents are roundly refused. Imagine Mary and Joseph telling the Three Wise Men, “Sorry Wise Men, you didn’t read our list. Frankincense and just plain old Gold were not on our list. If you want to give this to us, you better get to know us a little better first.” Clearly she and I are on different wave lengths. I hope it’s only her and the not the rest of the world because I cannot maintain a faith in humanity that shuns gifts.

Perhaps she could start giving the gift of love, unconditionally; especially in these times where love is so scarce. Perhaps then she would get gifts she can accept as a symbol of the givers love for her. If her idea of love is “a Kodak moment”, I’m sorry for her and those affected by her. She could always go and actually read Dickens’s A Christmas Story to find out that Christmas is not where you shop, it’s what’s in your heart. In the immortal words of Tiny Tim, “God Bless everyone!” – even Mrs. Conlon (whether she accepts or not).

Posted by Sonic B. Phuct at 11:10 PM | Permalink | Comments (1)

Letter to the Black Beyond:

In Philadelphia, the sun sets on post modern ghetto fallout. I’ve passed though a seemingly endless corridor of poverty and sadness, somehow broken up by the spirit to survive. We’ve crossed rivers and wetlands and ducked under whole cities to avoid traps that cause us to stop.

I’m desperate for a cigarette. It’s been some time now and I swear they are calling my name – the smokes that is. But I’ll survive. Maybe.

We’ve stopped and I’ve been offered a seat in the café car, but no good comes from sitting down for too long. She tells me she’s in sales – floor coverings. I wonder if sales attracts a naturally boisterous person or if it turns them into them. She’s from Ohio; she glad she doesn’t have an Ohio accent. I’m not really from anywhere, but I say I’m from Connecticut; weird little countries in a bigger one.

Continue reading "Epistle from 18-FEB-2004" »

Posted by Sonic B. Phuct at 10:45 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

here's the one I'd wanted....
sadly, the Red Sox have won and now my poem lays wasted...

March 2nd 2004

Upon the counting of determinates,
our future still lies in waste,
but wasting in decisions
is now our allied fate.

For now we have allied ourselves
with that thing most rot with fear,
a compromise of our promises,
our friend the wolf, and we’re the deer.

We’ve set in motion nothing new
by declaring the lesser of two evils,
for now we’ve the more simple task
of selecting the lesser of the devils.

We’ve forsaken our conscience once again
to hope for the impossible,
that this lesser of the evils today
will make this mad river crossable.

For that I say we should be shamed
and not allowed to play
in the games the world endures
where men on men take aim.

In foreign lands around the world,
what greatness can we direct,
when conscience steps to stumble
and the lesser evil we select?

This backward logic for leadership
is undoubtedly a sin,
for if it’s not the Yanks should lose
and my Red Sox finally win.

Posted by Sonic B. Phuct at 06:49 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Bravo! Today I went out and bought an external hard drive enclosure. I had an old 40gb drive I had from like 2000 to 2004 that had just one day died. Of course, I'd never backed it up very seriously, so I lost some unknown number of poems, stories, whatever - those that I hadn't printed out. I'd done a pretty thorough recovery with the print outs I'd had, but you can never know what else had existed only digitally - except for perhaps one you remembered, but not well enough to re-create... always thinking it would be great if you could just get at that data.

Continue reading "Welcome back Data" »

Posted by Sonic B. Phuct at 04:07 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Frontline is always a very good show, and this one continues it. Though, my single critique is that, while it obviously answers many questions, it ends with only the hint of the real question: If credit is required to live the lifestyle that defines the middle class, without it, wouldn't there be a much smaller middle class? And doesn't that lead to the question: why aren't American's being paid enough to live the middle class lifestyle? Is this the lesson of the 80's 20 years too late? Or is consumerism no longer cool? And if that's the case, what does middle class mean? Is a house, a yard, a TV and a computer no longer it? And the clothes, the gadgets, the products - hair product, cleaning product, bath product... how generically broad our desires are.

At the end of this, I'm left hating the predator and the prey - the former for the bone chilling coldness ruthlessly applied to the prey, and the latter for rolling over time and again, willing serfs refusing to revolt against an untenable master. And I'm afraid there's no New World to incubate the next rounds of change.

Posted by Sonic B. Phuct at 08:08 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

there is a dream,
a quiet solitude of reality
that seems to exist - really;
a warmth of life
that has to pause, for a while,
and bask in the reward:
i couldn't say what it might be for...
And I wonder if it is real,
when another reality comes into mind.
i have bills to pay, rent,
commitments to tend to,
and there is no way, how...

I see two realities -
the presents overflowing from the ornately adorned tree,
the soft light of lamps, muted patriotic with stars,
the light wooden floor, country treatments,
collection of snowmen on the mantle where
the wood stove pipes out it's soul for me -
a quintessential New England winter
solitude without sound, but for the crackling stove;

the impending dreary of a thousand more
tomorrows, and every yesterday the same
where now can never be... it is dull.

Then there being two, i can choose
(it should seem to me!) -
so I option that all through the house
not a creature stirred, except me,
and gaze into stars through the windows,
reflected off the ice capped snow...
I'll have now, like a fine feast savored
as each bite an indulgence lights upon the tongue.
I'll have now, the dream manifest
a union of presence.

Posted by Sonic B. Phuct at 07:22 AM | Permalink | Comments (1)

I saw in the New York Times today,
that good ol' Gitmo Bay
won't be closed for a while.
these politician crocodiles
dream up new tortured ways
to pass a bill for us to pay;
i've given up being sick -
the rest is the body politic,
waiting on dreams of decency...
waiting on you to scream @ me.
I quit reading the wasted Times,
and stare, instead, at breasts
and smiles --- legs and asses
set up drearily in low cost designer jeans;
i've come here to dream
and your tits aren't helping.
I imagine fingering your soft holes,
first gently, then holding you down
to keep your convulsions
from distracting my stabbing probes:
of course, your hair gets pulled
until I've got a few strands between my fingers:
dark curly threads
that remind me of the origin of the universe,
twisting your body into yogic knots:
I don't really want to fuck,
just want to see you writhe.
The news leaves me disinterested and void:
your moans escape out the window,
never touching my ears;
it is not from feeling devoid -
no, punching your crotch
is filled with rage - a belly full of too much sauce
poured liberally conservative -
your easy eyes darting furtive:
future children might hear
of your exploits with travelers...
but the news papers will never report
on our 45 minute love affair.

Posted by Sonic B. Phuct at 07:45 PM | Permalink | Comments (1)

One wonders, "Do they all look like this naked?"
then they all get naked and they do look like this.
She sends me messages,
"Pls call me im horny"
She wants me to be her pimp
because she trusts me, she says.
I told her she ought to get paid for fuckin', if nothing else.
But she's always givin' it out for free - to the africans,
to the cubans, the brazilians,
to the dominicans,
to the turks - always free;
I'll never get my cut of her cunt this way…
so I settle for a cut of her heart; pure as broken glass
rolled in the waves until she was dizzy and fell into my life.
I stopped wondering if they all look like this,
because every heart looks the same - vulnerable
and waiting to die.

Posted by Sonic B. Phuct at 07:30 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

I drove in to get drunk, get high, and maybe get laid.
I was never so ugly that I couldn't get laid,
except for the inside… that got pretty ugly sometimes.
sometimes the pills and the vomit,
drops from the doctor to keep the demons at bay,
the mixed bag of sausages and stale bread,
half liter cans of beer stinking,
the days of our lives rotting and decomposing
on coffee tables that were rented, then stolen,
the hunger that gnaws in a belly stuck full of dope:
there is an ugliness that keeps you wrapped in interest
waiting for the carnival freak to catch on fire
or shave her beard, or get mauled by that god damn bear
that has been dancing all over our walls:
none of that ever happens.
The freaks will always be the freaks
without fire or mauling or loving
and eventually, no matter how ugly, we'll fuck.

Posted by Sonic B. Phuct at 07:24 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

i lost today;
all things, gone.
awoke to the sun's goodbye.
awoke to evening's disenfranchisement.
lost my clubhouse a while ago,
a victim of fear.
lost dreams, loves, voices...
[i only took the drugs to be more ... acceptable]
time gone
and gone again
and times... oh the times.

i won't see anyone tonight.
(but the memories will flood)
can't imagine what she's doing here -
sure, the tequila is the best
but my head hurts more and more.

(sometimes i wish it was a tumor
and i could paint and write in a bathrobe
at whatever hour i deamed fit
and no one would dare criticize
a dying man given to eccentricities.)

the truth is i am too soft for this world.
i wonder if the other soft things fear so much:
the delicate petals of flowers,
rain drops falling to their death,
mountains flowing away,
stars collapsing on themselves.
well...
fuck them if they do.
i'll try and get up on time tomorrow.

Posted by Sonic B. Phuct at 06:16 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

My niece wrote something to a group looking for response, so I neglected to read the entirety of her request and seemed to land abruptly on "Inspires" ... to that I was inspired to reply. Sadly, my reply reads like a Chemical Mania summersault when I actually read the request..... But I liked it so I decided to save it, as though she asked "What inspires you?"

Continue reading "Inspiration" »

Posted by Sonic B. Phuct at 06:52 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Posted by Sonic B. Phuct at 09:40 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Posted by Sonic B. Phuct at 09:39 PM | Permalink | Comments (2)